


Welcome To Your Life

by siluria



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bourne-AU, M/M, Memory Loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:47:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 44,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23067217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siluria/pseuds/siluria
Summary: He wakes up in a rain-soaked alley with a bullet hole in his shoulder and no memory of who he is, or even where he is.  He doesn't know how he got here or who he can trust.As it turns out, the first person he meets will change everything.
Relationships: James T. Kirk/Leonard "Bones" McCoy
Comments: 24
Kudos: 117





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A lot of years ago I was watching Bourne Identity and had the 'bright' idea that Jim would work quite well as Bourne... I have been attempting to finish this ever since.
> 
> Without the help and encouragement of K this would have forever remained the stubborn fic that I wanted desperately to finish before I could clear my conscience and start something new! Turns out it's a great feeling to finish something... but apparently I have a lot of wips that have been hiding in the shadows. Onwards we go (at last)!
> 
> Thank you K <3

_“Forgetting who you are is so much more complicated than simply forgetting your name. It's also forgetting your dreams. Your aspirations. What makes you happy. What you pray you'll never have to live without. It's meeting yourself for the first time, and not being sure of your first impression.”_ ― Jessica Brody, Unremembered

*

When he wakes up all he knows is that the alleyway is dark and dirty, his shoulder throbs in time with the beat of his heart, and that he has no idea where he is. It's seconds later as he tries to find the answer to this that he realizes he doesn't know _who_ he is.

Rain falls down around him, the torrent slightly lessened by the patchy shade from the half-rusted fire escape above him, but a fat drop of water hits his head, making him blink hard as it catches on his lashes. He raises his hand to wipe it away, and as he brings his hand back down he stares at the blood coating his fingers. He recognizes that he needs to find shelter and medical equipment, and sitting among the rotting trash in an alley isn't ideal, but getting upright will be an effort; recognizing where he needs to go, the next challenge.

He hauls himself upright, using the garbage carts to help, but it's a long moment before he feels he can open his eyes without throwing up. When he does, he's blinking his shoes into focus. He tries to remember putting them on, tries to force a memory of sliding dark denim up his thighs or zipping up his coat as he leaves... somewhere. But it's useless, he can't imagine a house, or an apartment, an office or a restaurant. Can't even find the name of a town or a country.

Pushing himself away from the wall he takes a tentative step toward the street. His vision wavers, dark edges creeping into the periphery, but he wills another footstep out of shaking legs, and then another and another until he's leaning against the corner of the alley. There's no traffic in the street, the surrounding buildings are quiet and dark. He blinks at the luminous hands on his watch until he works out that its late, or early, depending on the way you view the day. 

The need to keep moving makes him push away from the wall, seeking out shelter. He stumbles off the curb, losing his footing a little before managing to straighten up. A few steps later and he sees the flare of headlights, hears the blare of a horn, but there's nothing he can do about it. 

A screech of brakes brings the car to a halt inches from his legs. The hood dips almost to the asphalt under the momentum, before the suspension brings it level again. He can't help but sink to his knees when adrenaline and hurt take their toll, and his hand reaches out, feeling the hot metal of the hood under his palm as he tries to stop pitching forward.

There's the slam of a door, a string of curse words, and as he's about to fall face first to the asphalt his arms are caught in a strong grip. Some muscle memory causes him to flinch, to tighten in readiness, but there's no energy left to follow through and his shoulder throbs fire hot.

"Jesus. I'm getting you to the hospital."

Something akin to panic washes through what's left of his mind, and it's with a rough unfamiliar voice that he manages to croak out a denial. "No, no hospital."

"Dammit, I don't think you're in a good enough state to argue here."

"Please? Just, no hospital."

The fingers around his biceps twitch, and through the roar in his ears, he catches the deep sigh.

"You're damn lucky I'm a doctor, kid. What's your name?"

_I wish I knew,_ he thinks, before the word goes dark.


	2. Chapter 2

*

He wakes slowly, sluggishly, and something about that feels wrong, but when he tries to turn his memory back he can manage no further than the dark, wet alley and the agony in his shoulder. This time there isn't the feeling of cold or rain. The surface under his body is soft rather than gritty, and he shifts slightly as he registers the feel of cotton against his skin.

Around him is silence, broken only by the hum of electricity from what he guesses is the overhead light. But then there's the rustle from someone moving, and the distinct tapping of fingers on computer keys. He remembers the car, and the Southern States accent, but he can't picture the owner of the voice, only remembering his plea to keep away from the hospital, from people that would ask why he's hurt, and just who he is - questions he can't answer. This isn't a hospital. There's no sense of anyone else around, no beep of equipment or smell of antiseptics, and he relaxes tense muscles.

He didn't realize that he'd drifted until he feels a hand against his forehead. He tenses and his hand flies up to grip the wrist. He hisses as the movement tugs against the stitches in his shoulder, and he blinks away the moisture to look at his Good Samaritan. He's being frowned at, a look of disapproval gracing a handsome face, one that's interrupted when the other man raises an eyebrow at the scrutiny. The other man isn't trying to pull his hand away, but he quickly lets go of the wrist, a feeling of chastisement washing through him.

"Sorry," he mutters. It takes some effort to get the word out, his throat dry and scratchy. 

He’s gently helped to a sitting position, a glass of water is held out to him, and in the other hand are a couple of white pills. His own hand trembles a little as he grabs the offered glass, and he thinks about ignoring the pills, but the man clears his throat and he takes them with numbed fingers. The liquid is cool as he swallows it down thirstily. He empties the glass and hands it back before he finally gets a proper look around the room, and at his host.

The room is large, tall windows covered by heavy drapes spread almost the full length of one wall, the furniture around the room all dark mahogany and stylishly matching. He doesn't linger long before he's turning his gaze back to the man standing by the bed. He's tall, his clothes are well-fitting on a slight frame that holds strength in the broad shoulders. As the man folds his arms he draws attention to well-defined biceps. He can see the strength, knows what the man is capable of and where his weaknesses may lie, what it would take to bring him down.

Hating the route his thoughts have gone he turns his attention to the white gauze that's taped to his shoulder.

"The bullet is out, and you're all stitched up. You won’t be playing football anytime soon, but it'll hold up, even with your aversion to hospitals."

He looks up from where his fingers have been toying with the edge of a piece of tape securing the gauze.

"Now that I've done all the hard work, you mind telling me who you are?"

That's the million dollar question. "Don't I get the name of the guy I need to thank?"

The man huffs out a breath. "McCoy. Leonard McCoy."

"Thank you."

There's a tense silence, until McCoy drops his hands to his hips and frowns. "Well?"

For a moment he thinks of lying, of picking a random name, but his mind is as blank as his memories and he suspects whatever he picks will be seen as a transparent lie. "I don't know," he admits quietly.

"You don't know?" The tone is disbelieving.

"I can't remember anything from before I woke up in the alley. I don't know who I am or where I am. I don't even know what I look like." He knows his frustration can be heard.

McCoy's eyebrows are pulled down into a frown, but he at least looks like he's not dismissing him this time. He watches McCoy walk away into an en suite, disappearing from sight for a moment before he's back with a small mirror. McCoy holds the mirror out wordlessly.

He didn't know what to expect, but if he's honest he was expecting to see someone older looking back at him. He puts himself at around 28, the blue of his own eyes catches his attention, and he stares, looking deep into his eyes for the answers buried there. He blinks, turns his attention to the dark red cut that snakes down from his hairline, splitting the dark bruise in two. He touches it gingerly, the scab stinging but not breaking open.

"I'm guessing you took quite a knock to the head," McCoy says, breaking into the silence. "You’ve been out of it for about 18 hours. The cut wasn't deep, but a mixture of the blow, and the likely trauma of the situation you were in probably knocked something loose. You didn't have any ID on you." McCoy shrugs. "Maybe a robbery gone bad."

He turns back to the mirror. "Maybe," he concedes, even if that doesn't feel right.

McCoy sighs and moves away before returning with a chair from the small desk he must have been sat at. He sits down and props his feet up on the edge of the bed as though he's completely at ease with having a total stranger in his house, one that could be a murderer, a robber, anything.

"Well kid, you're currently in San Francisco." 

North America then, which he presumes explains the accent he's heard in his head with the few words he's voiced aloud. "It's July 19th 2021, and currently the middle of a wet spell. I'm finding I'm missing the furnace-like Georgia summers..."

He settles back into the soft pillows propped behind him as McCoy's easy voice talks of presidents and gossip and tv shows. He lets the soft drawl follow him back to sleep.

*

When he wakes up a second time, or maybe it's the third, McCoy's not in the room. He looks around the space, spotting a pile of clean clothing left on the chair that's still sat beside the bed. Working on the assumption that they are his clothes, or at least intended for him to wear, he slips from between the sheets, and ignoring the tug from his shoulder he dresses himself slowly.

The door to the room is open allowing the aroma of food to drift in. He follows the smell of coffee, toast and bacon down the winding staircase until he reaches the kitchen, pausing as he watches McCoy plate up the breakfast items he's been cooking. When he turns to the coffee maker he must catch the presence in the edge of his vision, and he offers a small smile in return to the one McCoy gives him.

"Good timing, kid. Take a seat."

He pulls his hands from his pockets as he slips onto a stool at the long breakfast bar. McCoy slides a full plate in front of him and a mug of coffee, turning away briefly to grab his own breakfast before sitting opposite him.

He picks up a fork, and he's emptied half the plate before McCoy speaks again. "You remember anything yet?"

He shakes his head. "This is good, thanks."

He finishes off the food, the hunger he felt indicative of the length of time that's passed since he must have last eaten. He's sipping at the coffee when McCoy speaks again.

"You want to pick a name, or do I keep calling you kid?"

Their eyes meet over the rims of their mugs, but he's looking away before McCoy. The mug clinks against the marble of the table-top as he places it down. He knows what he looks like now, but he's no closer to working anything else out. Does he look like a Mark, a Ben, a Jason? None of them feel right. He's a John Doe, until he can get his memory back.

"Let's go with John until something better comes along."

McCoy nods as he swallows a mouthful of coffee. "Without knowing what triggered the memory loss it could be your subconscious holding back, or it could be the blow to the head that's left some swelling. I'd know better if you'd let me take you to the hospital. But I know that's not on the cards," McCoy adds, when he opens his mouth to protest.

He doesn't know why it's important to stay away from authority, but all he has to listen to right now are his instincts so he's trusting them until they fail him. His instincts tell him he's safe with McCoy.

"You're a doctor." He barely remembers McCoy picking him up from the road, but he recalls the comment about him being damn lucky. And while he accepts that he's been lucky with McCoy being the one to pick him up, he's not sure how much good luck he generally has in life. His luck wasn't good enough to dodge the bullet that entered his shoulder or block the blow to his head that scrambled his brain.

McCoy nods. "You stumbled in front of my car heading home from the shift from hell. I work at San Francisco General as a trauma and neurological surgeon, but the ER was piled out and so I got drafted in."

"I guess I do have some luck then."

McCoy snorts. "Yeah, lucky you," he says dryly, before yawning hard enough to crack his jaw.

'John' doesn't know if that is his cue to leave or not, but he's put McCoy through enough over the past few hours and he's feeling uneasy. He was shot. That means someone has been after him, someone that could still be after him and that will put McCoy at risk. That, at least, is something he knows he doesn't want to happen. He pushes his mug along the surface and drops from the stool. "I should leave you in peace. Thanks for all the help, and for breakfast."

McCoy frowns at him. "You don't think I'm going to let you head out there in your condition do you?"

The tone is incredulous, as though McCoy thinks keeping an amnesiac stranger with a bullet wound in his house is the normal thing to do. Maybe to him it is, but to 'John' it feels wrong.

"I don't know what happened. I could be bringing trouble to your door and that's not how I want to repay you."

"So you'll let me feel guilty for letting you walk out of the door not having a cent in your pocket or knowing where to call home?" McCoy puts his mug back down on the counter before clasping his hands together. He feels like he's about to get a lecture. "Listen kid, I may not know you, but right now you have no idea who you are either. Maybe I will get trouble on my doorstep, but I'll take it onboard until you remember your name."

He could argue, could probably fight his way out and McCoy wouldn't stop him, but he has no idea where he could go once he steps out of the door. "And what if I can never tell you?" He notes how McCoy specifically says that he has to remember his name, not reproduce one he might be told is his.

McCoy slips from the stool and gathers the breakfast plates, depositing them in the sink before he turns around and leans back against the counter. 'John' watches him, looking for doubt or nervousness, but he finds none. He dips his head and stares at his bare feet. He can't ignore the urge to flee, but he accepts that until he has something else to work with, the roof above his head and McCoy's medical care are the best he could hope for.

"I'll stay for now," he concedes.

McCoy nods, as though he would have accepted nothing else. "Help yourself to the bathroom, there's painkillers in the cabinet. If you want to head back to bed do so, or you can crash in the front room, the sofas are pretty comfy. If you feel up to it I'll drive you around town tomorrow and we can see if anything is familiar."

He nods. He’s grateful, but instinct is telling him he's not used to having someone else around to watch out for him. As McCoy turns back to the sink 'John' makes his escape and retraces his steps back to the master bedroom, and through the room to the connecting bath. There's a large glass mirror reflecting back the unfamiliar face, and there's no more recognition now than when he first saw it. His hands grip the edge of the sink and he braces his weight. There's a sharp pull in his shoulder that dials down to a persistent ache and he turns away to eye the cabinet before he decides that he'll take the pain over muting his senses; they're all he has left right now that’s true.

He turns the shower on to let the water heat, and he strips his clothes off revealing more of himself he's yet to know. There's a story etched in his skin. Thin scars and jagged holes. The wound in his shoulder isn't the first time a bullet has impacted his body, the proof's in front of him staring back from the fogging mirror. McCoy hasn't said anything, but he has to have seen, and with the knowledgeable eyes of a doctor, he'll have read them for what they are. And yet McCoy still won't let him walk away. He scrunches his eyes shut and moves to step under the shower, willing the hot water to wash away the fog in his brain.

*

He taps his fingers against his thigh as McCoy drives aimlessly through the streets of San Francisco. The town is familiar, but it's as though there's a wealth of knowledge stockpiled behind a closed door that he has no key to open. It could be familiarity from movies, rather than his home, and nothing's familiar enough to lead him to some answers. McCoy has provided as much of a commentary as he can, but he's admitted he hasn't been in town long enough to know all its secrets. When he asked him where he's come from and why he's moved to the West Coast, McCoy had stilled, and his grip on the steering wheel had tightened in the ensuing silence. He hasn't asked again.

They started at ground zero, at the alley he'd tumbled out of, but beyond the diluted blood there was nothing left under the fire escape to give him any clues as to how he even got there. The surrounding buildings are faceless and insignificant, or so he assumes when nothing triggers. Most of the city has been the same, and their route is now taking them further from the city high-rises. He hasn't turned his head from where he's gazing out of the side window, and McCoy's gone silent now they're on unfamiliar ground.

They pass through one street after another, no more or less remarkable, but as they drive past a bank he suddenly finds a string of numbers rolling through his head. "Stop."

McCoy doesn't slam on the brakes, but it's not far from it, and he clenches his teeth as the seat belt digs into his shoulder. "What is it?" McCoy asks.

"The bank," he replies. "I don't know, but I think I remember an account number or something."

McCoy glances over his shoulder, and there's the blare of a car horn, before he starts the car moving again, pulling a 180 and coming to a stop outside the bank. 'John' eyes the front of the bank for a long minute before he releases the belt and steps from the car. McCoy gets out too, but he pauses. "You want me to come in with you?"

He shakes his head. He doesn't know what he's going to find, a bank account with nothing to a name but a few payments and a regular wage packet, or a safe deposit box with secrets he needs to keep. Either way, at least he'll walk out of the door with a name.

"I'll wait here then," McCoy says as he leans his arms on the roof of the car. He nods his thanks, it doesn't escape him that McCoy looks like he doesn't expect him to come back.

The bank is cool, the blast of air-conditioning above the door making him shiver as it chases away the heavy humidity from outside. His gaze quickly spots the security man, overweight, not likely to move too quickly, but the Ruger holstered at his belt gives him the advantage. He shakes his head and smiles slightly at the girl behind the welcome desk as he approaches.

"Hi, I have a number for an account I'd like access to."

The girl, Juliet from the name tag, smiles brightly at him before grabbing a piece of paper from the desk and handing him a pen. "If you want to write it down I'll see if I can help."

The number comes easy, despite the ten-digit combination, and he's sliding the paper back across the counter.

Juliet types the code in, the mouse clicking a couple of times before she looks back at him. "Do you have any proof of identification?"

He shrugs. "I'm sorry I don't. I was mugged," he says, smiling ruefully as he points to the bruise and cut on his head. It could be the truth, even if he doubts it is. "I don't have a dime or a piece of paper to my name."

Juliet smiles sympathetically. "Well Mr Kirk, I think seeing as though you've managed to remember the number we can let you have access in the circumstances. The security measures you asked for in case of no identification are still in place anyway.”

Kirk. He has a name now, and while it doesn't feel familiar or spark any memories, it doesn't feel wrong either. "Thank you," he says, letting himself smile properly for the first time since he woke up in the alley.

"If you'll just follow me," Juliet says. She steps from behind the counter and he follows her as she walks across the open floor to a coded door towards the rear. After typing in the access code - 5417 his mind picks up - she leads him into a small room.

"I'll have someone bring your box through for you, Mr Kirk," she says. "If you could just place the fingers of your right hand on the pad."

There's a fingerprint reader next to the computer screen sat on the solitary desk in the room. Kirk rubs his thumb over the fingertips of his right hand and fights down the trickle of anxiety. He hopes his smile is honest as he lays his fingers against the glass of the reader.

There's a soft beep, and Juliet looks away from the computer screen with a smile. Kirk breathes a sigh of relief. "Thank you. I'll have the box brought in, just press the button by the door when you're done."

He's alone for a couple of minutes, giving him time to assess the room. There are no visible cameras in here, not like in the main floor of the bank. There's no glass either, nothing to suggest he's being watched, but that doesn't mean he's not on edge. He jumps a little at the knock on the door, composing himself in time for the door to swing open, through which a guard brings a small security box in. The guard nods before leaving.

He has a moment of panic in which he wonders whether he needs a key, but as he turns the box he sees the electronic key pad. He stares at it, willing a number into his head. It takes a minute, but he’s drawn to 1701. The red light flashes green instead, and there's a soft click as the latch unlocks.

He lifts the lid and stares at the contents. The most telling is the Sig Pro SP2020. More significant is that he knows exactly what handgun it is. There are spare magazines, contact lens cases, bundles of cash, cards and passports. He picks up the gun and magazines and puts them to one side. He flicks through one of the bundles of dollars in which he estimates there's around ten thousand; there's four more like it, plus another in Canadian dollars and one of Euros.

The passports are the next items he picks up. There are five different nationalities and three different names, the most common is James Tiberius Kirk. His mind works the name, voicing it in different accents and tones. He hears McCoy's voice among his own, but he hears 'Jim' rather than 'James'. He finds he likes it.

He picks up the credit cards in the name of James T Kirk and slips them into the back pocket of his jeans, selects one of the US passports in the same name, and grabs all the US dollars, shoving them into the inner pocket of his jacket. He searches through the rest of the contents and finally finds a driving license. It gives him an address in Iowa.

He leaves everything else in the box. He can come back now if he needs to. The Sig he stares at. There's a reason why he has a gun in a safe deposit box, he just doesn't know what that reason is. He picks it up and pops out the clip without any hesitation. He knows how to use this, but he doesn't know how he's come about that knowledge. He thinks about leaving it. He wants to leave it. But instinct screams at him again. Someone shot him. Sat outside in the car is Leonard McCoy, and Kirk - _Jim_ \- doesn't want to be the reason he gets hurt. The gun could make the difference. He balances the decision, before finally picking up the gun and tucking it into the back of his pants, the spare clips go into the last of the empty pockets in his jacket.

He closes the lid of the box and steps to the door, pressing the button. The guard enters moments later and gives him a nod. Jim tugs his jacket down and steps out of the room and back onto the main floor of the bank. He knows he's tense, his eyes flicking from the guard to the tellers, to the customers. He spares a smile for Juliet and heads out of the bank, breathing deep as the door swings shut behind him.

McCoy's still leaning against the car, and he raises his head as the door swings open. Jim smiles and walks to the car mirroring his pose a second before he holds his hand out across the roof. "James Kirk. Jim."

McCoy chuckles but holds his hand out for a quick handshake. "Pleased to meet you Jim."

Jim grins and it feels genuine. He hasn't got all his answers but he has a name, and a place to start looking. "You ready for some dinner, my treat?"

McCoy shrugs. "I could eat," he says easily, but his smile is wide. Jim doesn't regret the heavy weight of the Sig at his back.

*

It's two days later when whatever his life has been starts to catch up with him.

McCoy's been called back to the hospital. Jim had been anticipating it much sooner, not expecting the other man to put his life on hold, but when Jim had asked why he'd not gone back to work straightaway, McCoy had shrugged and said he was owed some time. Jim didn't press, but with McCoy gone he's had a good look around the apartment, noted all the hints of a comfortable life, but none of the personality of a home. He's observed enough to know McCoy lives alone, the silence of the telephones suggests he keeps to himself, but Jim hasn't decided if that's by McCoy's own design or not. It's hard to see why he's so solitary, McCoy's good looking, caring, and clearly soft-hearted when it comes to people in need. Jim's enjoying his company, and the sharp acerbic wit that trips off his tongue with his observations on life. 

Jim is convincing himself that he's sticking around because he has nowhere to go and he's vulnerable while he can't recognize a friend or foe. But there's enough cash upstairs in the spare room, thrown into a duffle McCoy had given him, to find a large impersonal hotel somewhere. Jim doesn't know what kind of man he is, but he's finding himself selfish enough to want the feeling of ease that being in McCoy's company brings, even if his conscience tugs at putting McCoy in potential danger.

He's stood in front of one of the floor to ceiling windows in the front room, it looks out onto a quiet street and he's watching the occasional dog-walker amble past on the sidewalk, brightly colored umbrellas shielding them from the drizzle. Imagining their lives distracts him from the dull ache as he rotates his shoulder, trying to soften the tightness of the still healing muscle and the itch of new skin. 

He doesn't know his own history, whether he has siblings, where he went to school, whether he was a jock or a nerd, or even if there's someone waiting at home for him to walk through the door. There's a woman on the street in bright white sneakers and tight pink leggings holding on the best she can to the lead of the black lab that's chasing after an interesting scent or a stray leaf. He could picture a cheerleader or a trophy wife, an arts student trying to pay her way through school by walking the pampered pooches of those that don't want to be caught in the rain cleaning up after their pets. It's some ingrained knowledge, something trained into him that notices that the sweater is old and tatty, and the bright pink nails that grip the handle of the umbrella. The way she leaps over a large puddle, landing easily on her toes, leads him to the conclusion that she's probably a dancer struggling to earn a little extra cash.

Jim sighs and digs his fingers into his stiff shoulder as he turns away from the window. It's still early, and he doesn't know how long McCoy will be needed. He heads for the shower, setting the temperature up high before switching it on. McCoy uses some branded shower gel that Jim doesn't recognize but it smells good and glides over his skin as he uses it to dig the last few knots out of his shoulder and neck. He stands under the spray for a few minutes longer, before finally shutting the water off and stepping out.

He scrubs his hair dry with a towel, leaving it draped over the side of the tub where he knows it will generate a McCoy eye-roll, or if McCoy’s feeling particularly at ease there’ll be a snide comment about him relearning his manners with everything else he’s forgotten. Jim smiles at the thought as he finger-combs his hair and tries to flatten it down. Giving up on the attempt he turns to look at himself in the mirror.

He's learned the details of his face, the scars included, but recognition isn't giving him a history. He still can't find reason in his fucked up head for each of the marks, and no matter how hard he presses into scar tissue there's no flick of a switch that will let him access the events behind them. He blinks to break the locked stare with his own eyes, and unfurls his fists to prevent himself putting them through the mirror in frustration. He doesn't think McCoy will be impressed, and he hates the fact that this is the only thought stopping him from doing so, and not the seven years of bad luck or the possibility of lacerated knuckles. Turning away from the sink he slips back into his clothes.

He feels the difference the second he steps into the hallway. He’s not sure if there was a sound, but some sixth sense is telling him he’s not alone any more. Jim knows that if McCoy had come home he’d have shouted, and even if Jim hadn’t heard the call under the flow of the shower McCoy would still be making enough noise for Jim to pinpoint where he is in the townhouse. He can’t say what is wrong or where, just that something is. His mind goes straight to the Sig in the duffel in his room and he spares a moment of thanks that he’s barefoot as he slips quietly along the hardwood floor of the hallway.

The door to the spare room creaks when it’s open about halfway, but any attempt to keep quiet becomes pointless when a gunman turns the corner from the stairs. He ducks into the spare room as the first shot is fired, diving to grab the duffel and throw himself back behind the door.

The Sig is out and the safety off when the door is kicked open. Jim’s expecting it and has already braced his weight to catch it and send the force back again. The gunman gets caught by the move, and there’s a grunt of pain as Jim tugs the door open so he has more room to attack. Close quarters means the gun is next to useless, so he changes his grip and clocks the gunman in the side of the head hard enough from him to drop and not move.

He’s listening out for any other intruders as he quickly pats the man down, looking for ID, for anything that will give him answers. He finds nothing but spare clips and a cell phone. He turns the cell off and slips it into his jeans pocket. He then picks the Beretta up from where the gunman dropped it and tosses it into the duffel.

Keeping crouched low as he edges out of the doorway, he lets instinct govern his movements. If he was to think of how to take an armed man down, Jim wouldn’t know where to start, if he thinks about shooting his gun he knows he’ll miss. He must have been trained to know those things, his body at least remembers even if his mind can't, he has to trust in that. He hugs the wall as he moves towards the stairs, holding the Sig ready, until he stops at the top.

He can’t see any shadows moving in the hallway at the bottom of the curved stairway, nor can he hear anything, but that sixth sense is still keeping him alert. He edges down the stairs, stepping over the fifth from the top because it squeaks, and the third one up because it’s a little loose on one of the nails and rocks if you step on it wrong.

The lounge is to his left, the kitchen to the right. His gut says the kitchen, more weapons available and more cover. He allows himself a quick look at the front door, which is closed, nothing to indicate forced entry. On the balls of his feet he dashes to the kitchen doorway, stepping through with the Sig held ready. He doesn’t see anyone, there are no twitching shadows and no rustling of clothing. But the moment his eyes fall on the knife board and recognize that there’s one empty slot that wasn’t there after he’d emptied the dishwasher earlier, he sees movement behind him reflected in the glass of the oven.

He dives to one side just as the missing knife cuts through the air where his thigh would have been if he’d kept still. There’s a clatter of metal as the knife skitters across the tiled floor, but Jim has already turned to the man in black that’s fast coming up on him. He dodges the fist, and his shoulder complains as he blocks the follow up elbow aimed for his head. His Sig is knocked from his grip and they’re down to bare hands.

It’s a battle of skills, ones that Jim has no idea how he got, or why. They’re evenly matched in style, but with the injury to his shoulder Jim knows he’s at a disadvantage with each blow or kick that comes at him. The fight takes them across the floor of the kitchen, bouncing off counters and walls. McCoy’s going to have to redecorate, that’s if Jim will ever let him back into the townhouse now it’s been compromised. His bare heel hits the discarded kitchen knife, and he hears it scrape across the tiles. He allows himself a second to see where it stops before he’s allowing his attacker to push him that way.

When he’s within reach he lets his body drop into a controlled fall as he dips under a flying arm. Grabbing the knife with one hand he rolls to his knees, pressing the steel blade upward into the body of the attacker as he rushes in.

He thinks he should gag at the warm flow of blood that coats his hand, but he doesn’t and he hates the idea of what that means, what it all says about him that he can take down two armed people without having to think. He pushes himself to his feet and scrubs his hands clean under the faucets in the sink. He pats down the pockets of this man too and finds a set of car keys. There’s no wallet and no cell phone this time. He pockets the keys and allows himself a brief moment to look properly at his attacker. The skin is deeply tanned, the features leaning towards Mediterranean, but with no memories Jim doesn't know the significance of that information.

He briefly checks the rest of the rooms downstairs, but reasons that as no-one else checked on the fighting he’s likely alone. He takes the stairs two at a time. He puts the recovered Sig in the back of his jeans, puts the second Beretta in the duffel with the other before he’s grabbing what he can get his hands on in his room, spare clothes stuffed in with everything else. He steps over the still-prone gunman and across the hall to McCoy’s room.

In the bottom of a closet he finds another duffel. He goes through McCoy's wardrobes and drawers, grabbing sensible clothing, jeans and tees, a casual jacket that will hold up if they meet rain or cold. He doesn’t know where they’re going yet, he’ll let instinct or fate decide once he knows McCoy is safe. Because if someone knows enough to look here, then they’ll probably know about the hospital.

Grabbing both duffels, Jim bolts down the stairs, he digs his boots and jacket out of the cloak and slips into them before heading for the front door, pausing with his hand on the handle. He allows one quick look back, something akin to regret hanging heavy in his heart before he carefully opens the front door and checks the street. The rain is still failing, but there’s no-one around. He pulls the collar of his jacket up, his fingers are pressing the button of the remote in his pocket and he’s straining his ears for the telltale clunk of door locks. A black Ranger a few yards down the street flashes its blinkers, and Jim keeps his eyes on it as he presses the remote again to make sure it’s the right one.

Jim jogs across the street and dumps the duffels on the back seat. He’s not convinced the truck, won’t be tracked, but he doesn’t need it long, just until he can get to the hospital. Maybe a bit further until he can jack another car; using McCoy’s BMW would be like waving a red rag and Jim has no intention of using it.

He reaches the hospital quickly, and finds a space in the staff parking lot. He grabs both duffels and locks the car before tossing the keys away, they skitter across the concrete and slide to a rest under a parked sedan. He'll find another car. He jogs through the lot to the elevator, stabbing the button that will drop him at the ER. He should be able to find McCoy from there.

The doors on the elevator open, exposing him to the noise and orderly chaos of the ER, Jim sidesteps a nurse that’s running past him and looks for the information desk. Hoping his smile isn’t manic and he doesn’t look too deranged with the new cuts and bruises he’s sporting, he approaches the desk.

“I need to get hold of Dr Leonard McCoy. He sometimes works ER but he’s based in Neurology. It’s a family emergency and he’s not answering his cell.” 

He's aiming for a quick reaction without having to slip past security and start searching unfamiliar floors. Fortunately the woman behind the desk smiles in sympathy. “I’ll page him for you.”

He breathes out sharply, his ribs throbbing as he does so, and he wonders how long he’ll keep that from McCoy’s very sharp assessment. “Thanks.”

Five minutes has gone and he’s about to head off into the hospital and carry out his own search when he finally catches sight of McCoy. He’s wearing the stereotypical white lab coat over a neatly pressed shirt and solemn tie. Jim strides over to him and grabs his elbow to steer him back the way he came.

“Jim? What’s going on?”

Jim glances over his shoulder to make sure no-one is following before he speaks. “Someone broke into your house, they were armed and I think they were after me.”

“Fuck! Are you okay?”

He ignores McCoy’s professional gaze as he no doubt tries to assess any damage to him other than the obvious split lip and the blackening bruise on his cheekbone.

“Yeah, don’t worry about me. Apparently I can handle myself perfectly okay. Who knew?” he says lightly, trying to diffuse the stiffness that exploded into McCoy’s frame at his words.

“Well not you, clearly. Do you know what they wanted?”

He shakes his head. “Where’s your locker room?”

McCoy wordlessly turns down an adjoining corridor, and scans his pass to activate a staff elevator. Jim lets him lead.

“Why are you here?” McCoy asks, breaking the silence as the floor counters continue to rise.

“Because if they knew to look for me at your place, then you can bet they’ll find you here. We need to get out of town.”

“Wait,” McCoy says as the elevator comes to a halt and the doors slide open. “I can’t just leave, I have patients to look after.”

Jim tugs McCoy out of the elevator car as the doors start to slide shut. He doesn’t say anything, just holds McCoy’s gaze until the other man sighs loudly and starts walking down the corridor. Jim follows closely. He waits until the door of the locker room is shut before he speaks, McCoy already turned to him, his posture defiant.

“Look, I don’t know who those guys were but they were professionals and they didn’t stop to talk before they were attacking me. I’m not going to let you stay here and be a target.”

“I don’t know anything, how the hell can I be a target?” McCoy growls.

“They don’t know that. And they know that I’m with you, maybe that’s enough of a reason, but I just don’t know. I wish to God I did, please believe me, but I don’t and I’m working on instinct and that’s screaming at me to get you away from here.”

He feels McCoy’s glare like an itch over his skin, enough to make him want to shift like a naughty child. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if McCoy says no. They can’t go back to the house, either of them, no matter how innocent McCoy thinks he might be in all this. He wonders for a moment if he has it in him to knock McCoy out and drag him out of town, but he would feel like an oxymoron when all he wants to do is keep the man safe. He got McCoy into this, he’ll get him out of it.

“I take it one of those is mine?” McCoy finally says, his voice hushed and monotonous.

He wonders what McCoy’s asking, and it must show on his face because McCoy scowls and points to the duffels Jim’s forgotten he has on his shoulder. “Yeah,” he says simply, hoping this means McCoy’s going to come willingly.

McCoy shakes his head and sighs, then he’s turning away towards a locker. Taking the white coat off, he screws it into a ball with angry twists of his hands before he tosses it in a locker that has ‘McCoy, LH.’ stenciled on it. The tie is tugged off next, following the coat into the locker. He bends to gather up a black messenger bag before he slams the door shut making Jim jump.

“Stay here,” he orders, placing the messenger bag at Jim’s feet.

His fingers clench into fists as he tries to resist the urge to follow. He recognizes that he’s asking McCoy to trust an amnesiac stranger who could be anything from a soldier to a murderer. If he can trust McCoy to come back then they’re on even footing, or at least he hopes they are. He shifts his weight on his feet, and one of the duffels brushes against the Sig pressing against his spine, its presence is a comfort. He doesn’t feel as helpless with it sat there.

The pacing starts two minutes after McCoy walked out of the room, and he’s about a minute from marching out of the locker room to find the man, when the door opens. McCoy catches his eye as he walks in, holding the door open with a foot.

“I’ve cleared some time off,” he says. His voice is still flat but his eyes burn with emotion. “Sort this out, Jim.”

He nods. He doesn’t know how, but he will, even if his promise is a silent one to himself. One he intends to keep.

“I figured you wouldn’t want to use my car so I’ve borrowed Geoff’s.” Jim smiles and nods, pleased that McCoy appreciates the situation. “He wants the car back in one piece, apparently it’s a classic.”

He allows himself a smirk now he knows he has McCoy with him. “So no Thelma and Louise moments then?”

“Damn right,” McCoy snorts before he shakes his head and holds a hand out for his duffel. “You can remember the plot of Thelma and Louise, yet you have no idea what your inner leg measurement is?” he asks as he shoulders the duffel and bends to collect his messenger bag.

He grins, feeling some of the stress fall away. “What can I say? Some things leave an impression.”

“Like someone’s fist by the look of your face.”

He pushes McCoy out of the door, eager to get moving, get out of San Francisco. “I’ll duck next time.”

“Well I believe in being prepared, and knowing you kid, the med kit in this bag will be well-used. Where are we going anyway?”

He shrugs. He hasn’t yet decided, but it’ll be defensible while he works out who his targets are, and how he’s going to take the fight to them.


	3. Chapter 3

*

“Iowa?” McCoy’s staring at him like he’s grown another head. “Why don’t you just keep going to Timbuktu?”

The headlights sweep over the sign for the Mountain Time zone near the Utah state line and Jim sighs. “Because we’d need to fly and I forgot to pack your passport in the rush to escape the gun-toting people trying to kill me.”

McCoy’s silent and Jim’s wondering what he’s thinking as he continues to stare at him. “What’s in Iowa, Jim?” he asks finally, voice soft and Jim barely hears it over the roar of the Corvette’s engine.

His teeth clench hard enough to make his head throb as he desperately bites back on yet another _I don't know!_ He's so sick of those three words, he just wants to be able to give an answer, that he knows, rather than what he's been told. He stares resolutely at the road ahead, his instinct is to slam his foot on the gas, but he catches himself before his foot even twitches. He doesn't know what's in Iowa, but he needs to find out.

They've switched the driving at each stop, and McCoy's followed Jim's directions with only a few complaints. He decided where they were heading the minute they drove out of San Francisco, the address on the driving license the only place he knows of outside of McCoy's townhouse. It could be nowhere, a fake address to fill in the blank on a fake document, or it could be a safe place where he'll find some answers.

He's ignored McCoy's questions about where they're going for the last ten hours. They need to stop for longer than gas and dry ham and cheese sandwiches, somewhere they can sleep for more than an hour in a cramped seat. Wendover has enough billboards for faceless chain hotels that he'll risk staying a night in, and he swerves last minute to take the exit.

McCoy keeps his silence as Jim steers into the motel car park. He's still silent as Jim signs them in under a false name and an address in New Jersey, and talks the receptionist into giving them a twin. He might want to avoid answering McCoy’s question, but that doesn’t mean he’s ready to let him out of his sight just yet. He checks the room, not sure he could say what he was looking for, but knowing instinct will let him know if something is wrong or missing. The room’s on the second floor, and he can see the Corvette parked in the lot at the back of the motel. The drop to the ground isn’t too far either, and the window will open far enough if they need an alternate exit. When he turns he find McCoy staring at him, arms crossed and a wry smile on his face.

“Should I start barricading the door?” McCoy snarks.

Jim shakes his head before he tosses his duffel onto the bed McCoy’s claimed while his back was turned. They have another two or three days in the car before they get to their destination, he doesn’t want that to be filled with awkward silence or arguments. He owes McCoy anyway. “You asked what’s in Iowa.”

McCoy frowns but he stays silent, not reaching or looking at the duffel.

"Open it," he adds when McCoy shows no intention of doing anything other than waiting Jim out.

He keeps his eyes on the duffle and McCoy’s elegant fingers as they undo the fastenings. He hasn't told McCoy what he found in the bank, about the cash or the gun, the passports or the driving license; he holds his breath in order to listen for McCoy's reaction.

"That's a lot of cash," McCoy finally says after a protracted silence that stretches far too long for Jim's nerves.

Jim does raise his head then to look at McCoy, nearly giving himself whiplash in the process, because the huge amounts of cash are clearly something compared to the two Berettas and the spare clips that he was sure McCoy would freak over. 

"Okay," he says, drawing out the vowels. He sighs deeply. Maybe he should have just started talking instead of letting McCoy dig. "There's a driving license inside the inner pocket. It was in the safe deposit box with the cash, a load of passports in different names, a gun and spare ammo."

McCoy pulls out the license and Jim's gaze flicks between him and the duffle as he studies it. "I wouldn't have put you at 30," he says finally.

Jim snorts. It's involuntary and undignified, but he's caught between relief and freaking out over how well McCoy seems to have taken to the whole adventure he's been thrown into since Jim staggered in front of his car. He laughs a little breathlessly and shakes his head.

"That's all you have to say? Nothing about the multiple names, passports or guns?"

His head is dipped to the floor, but he catches McCoy's lopsided shrug out of the corner of his eye. "Apparently my house was invaded by gunmen. I figure there was a reason they came after you with weapons, so I figure there's a reason you found one in your deposit box."

Jim raises his head to look at McCoy, but he can’t see anything but honesty as their eyes meet. He supposes McCoy’s viewpoint is the logical way to look at it. It also reminds him that McCoy only has Jim to protect him from whatever the weaponry signifies about his life and the reasons people are after him. "Do you know how to use a gun?" he asks.

"I'm from Georgia; you come out of the womb twirling six shooters and blasting shot glasses off corral fences."

"Show me," he demands, needing to know for certain.

McCoy sighs, but takes out one of the Berettas. Jim watches as deft fingers release the magazine, McCoy checking the rounds in the clip before slotting it back in and chambering a round. The safety is then clicked off too, but not until he’s pointing the barrel away from anything or anyone he can damage. It's done calmly and quickly enough to satisfy Jim and he nods.

"You want me to take it apart too?" McCoy gripes as he clicks the safety back on and ejects the round from the chamber.

He shakes his head. "Nah, just do me a favor and keep hold of that. It would make me feel better."

"I'm not a complete pacifist, Jim, but I have no intention of carrying around a loaded firearm in public." McCoy shoves the gun back in Jim's duffel and closes it up again before walking over and dumping it on Jim’s bed.

Jim catches it as it threatens to tumble off the edge. He wants to argue. He knows there will be an argument over this, probably sooner rather than later, but it's late, they're tired and have been on the go for too long. He knows if he tries to talk this out now they won't come to any rational agreement, and he's not prepared to deal with the tension just yet.

"We'll talk about that later," he concedes. McCoy huffs, but he's not commenting further, and for that Jim's grateful.

*

Jim shifts in his seat as his bruised ribs let him know exactly what they think of him sitting in a car seat for a second day running. McCoy had produced a fully stocked first-aid kit out of his messenger bag last night and insisted on seeing to every bruise, graze and cut he could find. If Jim had any dignity before, he'd lost it all under McCoy's dubious bedside manner.

McCoy glances at him now, his gaze assessing before he turns his attention back to the road. They've been going for a couple of hours, sticking with radio stations that all sound the same as they drift in and out of range with each mile that passes. The current station cuts into static again and Jim's had enough so he reaches out to turn the knob leaving only the rumble of the road under the tires and the throaty purr of the Corvette.

The silence leaves Jim with his thoughts, and with only the last few days to dwell on as far as his past goes, all he can do is think about now and what's to come, which isn't that easy with no foundations. He doesn't have a lot of people to compare McCoy to. There are no memories of other people, whatever walk of life they are from, but he's pretty sure most would have freaked out by now and called the police on the crazy guy with the gunmen after him. McCoy hasn't really freaked out. Bitched, yes, but freaked out? Jim can't be sure of course, but he's pretty certain McCoy freaking out would include a lot more dammits and arm waving. What confuses him most though is that McCoy seems to trust him; enough to get in the car with a stranger and drive halfway across the country without asking too many questions. Then again he's probably accepted that Jim doesn't have any answers.

Jim has his own questions though. Mostly about who and what he is. McCoy can't answer those for him, but until Jim can find those answers McCoy is his only anchor and he can't see a point where he can see cutting McCoy loose as an option. But McCoy has a life, and a past, one that never included Jim and all his baggage. He feels like he should walk away now, save McCoy any more trouble.

"You're thinking too loud."

Jim startles. "Huh?"

McCoy chuckles. "You tap your fingers when you're thinking."

Jim's eyes are drawn to his fingers resting against the door's arm rest, he resists the urge to move them and fold his hands into his lap like a chastised child. Instead he taps again before stilling.

"Why are you trusting me?" he asks softly. It's the question he most needs an answer to, because he's not sure he could do what McCoy has should their situations have been reversed.

McCoy's silently watching the road, and Jim stares until McCoy shrugs under the scrutiny. "I don't know," he finally admits. "Maybe it's because I feel that I don't have a choice but to trust you."

"Maybe," he murmurs, as he turns to stare instead at the monotonous scenery flowing past. He didn't give McCoy much of a choice at the hospital, so his response isn't unexpected, but Jim hopes that there is something in who he is that can be trustworthy. He wants McCoy to trust him for who he is. He only hopes that what he is won't make that impossible.

"Mostly it's because it doesn't feel wrong to trust you," McCoy adds in the protracted silence.

Jim's head whips back round. McCoy's ignoring the attention, his eyes flicking from the road to the mirrors and back again. Jim doesn't know what to say to break the slight unease that's settled between them.

McCoy sighs, and scrubs a hand through his hair. "When you decided to stagger out in front of my car a few nights ago I was contemplating what the hell I was doing. I went to San Francisco six months ago with nothing but my bones and a decent education and work experience behind me. That was enough to get a job. I hadn't had a day off in six months, pulled double shifts and covered for every sick day and holiday going. I'm tired, Jim."

It's an admission Jim thinks McCoy didn't want to make, but maybe needed to. Maybe it's something his colleagues have been trying to tell him, and why he got the days off when Jim first landed on his doorstep, how he's sorted out time off now to babysit him in this quest to find himself.

"What's in Georgia?" he asks. He's purposefully repeating McCoy's question from last night, right down to the inflection. McCoy knows it too if the huff is anything to go by.

"Georgia is home, Jim. Full of peach trees, mint juleps and my mama's pie," he answers, and his voice is warm. "Unfortunately it's also the place where my ex-wife can cheat on me with my ex-best friend, and where her family has a better status with the judge than mine. As such, she got pretty much everything, leaving me with what I could fit in the trunk of my car."

McCoy pauses as he overtakes a gas tanker.

"Having her swan around town as though she'd done nothing wrong wasn't something I could deal with. Not with what happened with my dad, I just couldn't..."

His words trail off and Jim's regretting asking in the first place. He's not going to press. Jim's certain he has secrets that he wouldn't speak of, if he could remember them. Right now, McCoy might know everything that Jim knows, but he's not going to ask for anything more from the other man to even up an imaginary score.

"At least I've solved one problem," Jim says cheerfully.

McCoy frowns. "What's that?"

He turns his head to grin at him, "What to call you."

"I may be older than you kid, but I'm pretty sure I have enough faculties in place to recall introducing myself."

Jim snorts. "Well, you might be older than me, but Leonard sounds like you should be retired and playing croquet."

"Too many syllables for you?" he snarks in return.

"Nah, you're too hot to be Leonard, or Len. I could have gone with Leo..."

"Over my dead body," McCoy warns.

"... but I think I'm just going to go with Bones."

"What?"

He turns to McCoy with a big grin on his face. "It's a like a gangster name, it makes you more dangerous."

"Why do I need any more danger? I've got you along for that."

"Bones, don't be like that, I think it suits you."

"You're not going to let this go, are you?" Jim shakes his head enthusiastically. "Then you damn well better get used to being called Idiot."

He grins and this time finds it easier to ignore the twinge of his ribs as he shuffles in the seat. He tries to also ignore the swell of warning that comes with giving a pet name to someone he'll likely have to say goodbye to. For now, this is one instinct he'll ignore.

*

He startles awake as the car comes to a halt and the rumble of the engine shutting off turns into ticking as it starts to cool. Jim blinks at the lights of the hotel sign and wonders where the hell they are. It's not that late when he manages to bring the hands on his watch into focus.

"Cheyenne," Bones answers the unspoken question. "There's not much beyond here until Omaha and I need something decent to eat. There's a place down the road that does good home cooking that I feel a hankering for and even you might be able to sit still long enough to enjoy."

He bites back any insistence that he can sit still, but Bones will only point out how much he fidgeted last night when they ate. Jim's not ready for another one of Bones' lectures about eating properly either.

"I take it you've been here before."

"A long time ago," Bones admits flatly as he pops the trunk and pulls out the duffels. Jim takes his and slings it over his shoulder as he waits for Bones to lock the car.

He doesn't ask. He figures Bones will tell him about it if he wants to, Jim's done prying. He checks them in with another random address he plucked from Google, pays in cash, and makes sure he picks his bed this time, one that puts him between Bones and the door. If Bones notices he doesn't say anything as he disappears into the bathroom. Jim checks the windows again, makes sure he has an exit, tests the door locks and manages to make himself look innocent by the time Bones emerges. He smiles brightly at the raised eyebrow that's pointing in his direction like a deadly weapon and edges past Bones into the bathroom.

He's staring at his reflection in the large vanity mirror, seeing past brown and yellow bruises and into blue eyes he's starting to find familiar. Has he been to Cheyenne too? Does he have a memory he could have shared with Bones about living off the air-force base, or watching the rodeos at the Frontier Days. He hates that he knows things about the town but not a damn thing that relates to him. He shakes his head and splashes his face with cold water, finding a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes when he opens the door.

Bones has changed and is sat on the bed waiting for him, and Jim pulls his tee off before digging around in his duffel and settling on a soft plaid shirt he may or may not have lifted from one of Bones' drawers. He doesn't feel Bones' eyes on him, but when he turns back, shirt mostly buttoned, Bones is looking away with a slight blush on his cheeks. Jim's guts tightens, and he files away the image and thoughts about what that might mean into one of the numerous empty corners of his mind to deal with later.

"Ready?" he asks, and this time his smile is without force.

They walk the few blocks to the restaurant, the evening is warm, even with the wind swirling around them. The Albany is popular, but Jim relaxes as he takes in the interior, the dark wood paneled bar, the pool tables, it feels like his kind of place.

"You eating with us tonight boys?"

Jim returns the smile the young waitress greats them with. Bones beats him to any reply. "Yeah, we'll take a booth if you have one darlin'."

The drawl is the most pronounced Jim has heard from Bones since he's met him, and the charm oozes off him so thickly that Jim's left flapping for almost as long as the waitress. Jim isn't blind. Bones is a good looking man, all dark and moody, muscled and trim. He doesn't know if he goes for men, or what his type is if he does, but right here, right now, he'll say yes if Bones asks. The waitress straightens herself up and her smile brightens, Jim would guess that as soon as Bones' back is turned she'll be fixing her hair and lipstick. He won't be surprised if Bones' dinner plate has a more generous helping than is standard.

She shows them to a booth and Jim slides into the seat that will give him a view of the front door and the patrons. She places two menus onto the table and takes their drinks orders before making it clear that if there's _anything_ they want she'll be only too happy to oblige. Jim watches her go before turning to stare at Bones who is studying his menu as though it holds the secret to eternal life. He waits for Bones to make his choice and look up.

"What?" Bones grumbles, not the least bit innocent. Jim raises an eyebrow and smirks dirtily. Game on.

Their drinks arrive before Bones says anything else, the waitress leaning over a little farther than is required and, as Jim suspected, has fixed her hair into a much neater ponytail. He's not quite sure though if the color to her cheeks is cosmetic or not. Bones thanks her with another 'darlin' and Jim figures two can play at that game, and by the time the girl leaves with their food orders Jim guesses she's imagining a threesome. He allows himself a moment to imagine that too, until he's interrupted by Bones clearing his throat.

Jim takes a pull from his bottle of Bud. "What?" he asks, echoing Bones' tone from moments before.

Bones snorts and sips at his own beer before he settles back into the corner of the booth. "I came here once when I was younger. My dad had a love of anything old west and wanted to do a tour along some of the famous sights: Deadwood, Laramie and such. He seemed to have a thing for the old railroad routes too."

Jim takes the past tense for what it is. Coupled with what Bones had said about leaving Georgia, he's not going to push for anything more than Bones wants to share. 

"I could make something up," he offers when Bones doesn't say anything else.

"Shit, sorry Jim, I didn't think."

He looks back at Bones with a frown on his face. Bones looks mortified, and Jim realizes that he thinks talking about his own past makes Jim feel bad about his lack of recall. He laughs. He can't help himself, because surely Bones must know that he'd rather listen to Bones' life history than sit and wonder what his own is like.

"Hey, do not apologize!" he says forcefully, and he reaches across the table to grab Bones' wrist. "If anything I feel bad about leaving you to fill the silence and feel like you need to offer up pieces of yourself you wouldn't otherwise do. Don't feel like you need to tell me anything you don't want to."

He feels the muscles in Bones' arm relax under his grasp, and waits for the other man to nod before he draws his hand back. Jim doesn't want Bones to feel like he needs to fill silences with trips down memory lane, especially when those quiet moments aren't awkward. He feels comfortable enough to let those moments linger, he had hoped Bones felt the same but now he's not so sure, so he glances around the room for inspiration for a story that isn't his.

The restaurant area and the bar beyond is full of a wide spectrum of people, young families to weather-worn workers. Jim might not know their names, but he can read them, read enough of them to confess and let Bones see more of the man he’s learning he is.

“See the guy playing pool, red plaid shirt over a… well, I guess it was white sometime, vest?”

Bones turns his head as he takes a sip of his beer, and he has to suppress a smile at how obvious the movement is even though that wasn’t the other man's intention. “What about him?”

“This is where you get to see my super power in operation.” 

Bones sends him a disapproving look but waves his hand for him to carry on. Jim doesn’t need to look back at his subject, he already has all the information he needs.

“He’s 50 pounds overweight, has a dodgy knee and is getting over the bad back that riding for three hours on his Harley Bad Boy today has given him. He’s not local, he’s from North Carolina, and is celebrating his retirement with a cross-country bike ride with his brother. As much as he’s enjoying it, he’s missing his wife. He’d be a good man to have on your side in a fight too, could probably knock someone down with one punch. If I had to take him down I’d go for the knee, before twisting away and hitting him from behind.”

He raises his eyes to Bones, who is silent. The disapproving look has smoothed out to one holding a little confusion, but he looks like he believes what Jim has told him, and if he’s honest, that wasn’t what he expected. Bones looks over to where the man is laughing as he sinks the 8-ball.

“I can tell the weight, and I get the knee and back pain in his movements. It’s not a stretch to say he’s a biker based on the boots, and a Harley because of the belt buckle. I get you’d pick up the accent but I don’t see the rest,” Bones admits.

Jim hears the request for more. “The Harleys are easy, there are two parked outside, both Bad Boys parked next to each other with North Carolina plates. There’s enough dirt on them to say they’ve been ridden today, and I doubt anyone could sit on those things for more than three hours,” Jim says, feeling like he’s cheated a little with the bikes.

“He’s got a wedding ring on, keeps turning it with his thumb and glancing at it occasionally. The guy he’s playing with has a family resemblance and the same lilt to his voice that comes from a common parenting. He might be overweight, but there’s some solid muscle in his arms and the power he has when he breaks off is evident.”

Bones settles back in the booth. “And the retirement?”

Jim shrugs. “I overheard him comment about it earlier.”

Bones snorts and shakes his head. “That’s some recall and deduction.”

“You’re trained to know the body," Jim says, matter-of-factly, "that’s why you can see the injuries, you’re used to having to work that out with kids or those that can’t articulate.” Bones nods in agreement. “I figure I’m trained to pick up as much as I can as quick as possible and piece it together. That I instinctively know who is a threat in the room and how I can take them down is likely also the product of training.”

It’s all he’s thought about in the quiet moments, he doesn’t have much else to dwell on. He’s guessing military trained. He had thought law enforcement for a while, until the attack at the townhouse. He knows that he’s too focused on attack within his fighting style, rather than the defense that he’d expect from a cop, for him to be convinced that he’s one of the boys in blue. He’s not quite sold on straight-up Army though, he’s too good with small arms, and he feels comfortable with them, he’s not itching for something bigger in the form of a rifle. He could accept the Marines or SEALS, but he’s also contemplating the government agencies. He might not like it, but he’s also thought about the other side of the law. He doesn’t have enough evidence to rule it out, but he hopes that’s not the case.

If Bones was going to say anything it gets lost in the arrival of their food, and the delicious aroma makes Jim's stomach grumble in anticipation. He thanks the waitress, Sammy, now with another of her shirt buttons undone and even more eye make-up painted on than before. The food’s as good as Bones promised, and the plates piled as high as he’d suspected they would be. When Sammy asks if they want dessert Jim can’t help the ‘ _maybe later_ ’ that trips off his tongue, as layered as it is in suggestiveness. Flirting, it seems, comes easy to him.

With more beer in hand they head to the free pool table. Jim’s not sure he has the skills to play it, but he wants to know, figures if he knows his way round guns then the angles and power involved in being a convincing pool shark should come naturally to him. He’s surprised to admit to himself he has no idea what Bones’ skill level is in the game. He suspects he’ll be able to put power in his shots with the musculature of his arms and shoulders, probably has good coordination too due to the intricacies of surgery. He’s already started to suspect that there’s a side to Bones he’s yet to see, and wonders if he’s the hair-raising type or the book-worm. He’s putting money on the former.

They call it a day at the end of seven games, Bones only just coming out on top in the eight-ball shoot-off. Jim’s feeling a bit put out about that, and figures he must not be used to losing much if that’s the case. He’s drunk enough to feel it too, and he’s glad Bones had suggested heading back to the hotel because Jim’s not sure he could have kept his hands to himself if he’d had to watch much more of Bones bending over to take his shots. He'll take one memory from this evening, that being that Bones fills out a pair of jeans to devastating effect. If Bones asks, he’ll definitely put out; it's not cheating when you can't remember whether you have someone waiting at home.

Sammy looks decidedly disappointed at being left behind when Jim slaps a hand on Bones’ shoulder as he holds the door open for him. For some reason that makes him feel smug, and he hates himself just a little for feeling that way. He’s almost feeling Sammy's disappoint when Bones strips down to his boxers and then heads to his own bed and slips under the covers with nothing more than a grumbled _g’night idiot_ in response to Jim’s _Sweet dreams, Bones_. It feels too much and not enough, and Jim lies awake for some time listening to Bones’ soft breathing through the beer-buzz ringing his ears and desperately trying to box up the images of Bones' bare shoulders and long, muscled legs where they won’t keep haunting his thoughts.

*

Bones, the bastard, does not have a hangover, and Jim watches him down a hefty breakfast of fried food while he clings desperately to his third cup of black coffee. Bones glances at him occasionally, a knowing look in his eyes and a smug curl to the corner of his mouth. Jim would call him on it, if it didn't bring even more attention to the evidence that he apparently doesn't hold his liquor too well. Instead he's going with feigned ignorance and has convinced himself he's just out of practice. There's no-one to call him on it if that's not the truth, and it's not a lie per se, he just can't remember the last time he had a few drinks.

He blinks at the clatter of cutlery on an empty plate, not even aware he'd drifted. Bones leans back in his seat with a satisfied sigh and a steaming cup of coffee in his hand. "What are the plans today?"

Jim squints at him for a moment while his sluggish brain catches up. "Seeing as though you're so cheery you're driving first," he mutters, sipping from the coffee mug he's gripping in both hands as though his life depended on it. The way his head feels, that's probably not far from the truth. "I figure we're about eleven hours from Riverside, but I don't like the idea of heading somewhere I don't know after dark. We'll stop in Des Moines, which leaves us a couple of hours out and we can hit the place early tomorrow."

Bones nods. "Makes sense."

Jim watches him in silence as he drains his coffee. Bones waves off the waitress about to offer him a refill but Jim holds his mug out hoping the fourth hit of caffeine will be enough.

"Did you look up this address we're heading to yet?" Bones asks when the waitress is back out of earshot.

"I checked up on Google maps, and it's a farm out on the outskirts of Riverside. A house, a barn, grain silo, and fields as far as the eye can see over terrain that stretches to the horizon without a bump anywhere, or it was a couple of years ago. I imagine it's one of the few places you can see the curve of the earth."

"Could probably see someone coming," Bones points out.

It's a thought Jim had too, although he did notice that the house is lined with tall trees keeping some semblance of privacy from the road, they'll also act as a blind spot, and that he's not happy about. The land does have a good boundary with the English River, but that and the isolation are all the place has going for it. 

What he hasn't yet mentioned is that he's dug into any mention of the name Kirk in Riverside. Their first night on the road, Jim let Bones sleep while he made use of Bones' laptop. He's not sure what to make of what he's read. There's an obituary notice for a George Samuel Kirk on March 22nd 1991 that matches with the date of birth on Jim’s driver's license. The obit. suggests that he has an older brother called Samuel, and his mother's called Winona. He doesn't know if either of them are alive, or whether they still live locally. All he knows is that he won't recognize them if he turns up at the farm and they greet him. He has family, and maybe he can trust them to tell him where he came from and who he is, but San Francisco is a long way from Iowa and he's not sure whether he was away from home for a reason.

He's wondered what his dad was like, whether his mom told him stories or if the man was nothing more to him than a name he inherited. He wonders whether he'll see his mom and recognize her from the reflection he sees in the mirror - a shared ocean-blue gaze, the same curl to the nose, the same jut of chin. Maybe those are the traits he shares with a dead man. At least he knows that there are no memories of father-son football games he's missing out on.

"You okay?"

Bones' voice shakes him out of his thoughts, and he blinks the coffee cup back into focus before raising his head. Bones is looking at him with a scowl on his face, an expression Jim is finding endearingly familiar. He pastes a smile on his face. "We're not drinking like that again tonight. Not sure how you got away without feeling like shit."

Bones smiles, but the arch of one eyebrow lets Jim know he's not fooled by the distraction. Thankfully he runs with Jim's avoidance. "You know how I said we come out of the womb twirling six-shooters?" Jim nods. "Well, the other hand is holding a decent bottle of bourbon. Summers in Georgia make a man thirsty. And besides, I've had a lot of practice of late."

Jim smiles lopsidedly, downs the remainder of his coffee and stands, tossing enough bills to cover the check along with a sizeable tip on the table. Bones follows his lead without a word, and he wonders, not for the first time, how much good luck he engenders to have stepped out in front of Bones' car that night. Jim doubts that if their roles were reversed that he would have been able to return the favor, and not just because of the situation. He knows that without his memories he can't trust anyone. He can't trust their motives, or that they actually know him when he has no recall of prior experience. It's already been demonstrated that his life is in danger, that there are people that would likely try anything to end him. That alone suggests his life is full of wariness. Jim's gut tells him he's a loner. It also tells him that it's by choice rather than fate. None of that tells him why he instinctively trusts one Leonard H McCoy, or why the thought of Bones not being around scares him.

He shakes himself out of his thoughts and tosses the keys over the roof of the Corvette. Bones plucks them from the air. He raises an eyebrow when Bones doesn't move, and he looks back at Jim like he wants to say something. Jim's not sure he wants to hear it, so he sits his cheap gas station sunglasses over his eyes and ducks into the car. By the time Bones has the engine running, Jim's tipped the seat back and is determined to nap off his hangover. Bones will ask later if he still feels the need, and later Jim might be firing on enough cylinders to dodge the answer.


	4. Chapter 4

*

The farmhouse sits where the Google images say it is, isolated from the nearest neighbor by miles of corn and wheat fields that rustle as they're swayed by the dry winds. Not much has changed in the years since the satellite images were taken, sure the trees have grown more and crops have changed with the seasons and what is likely neglect, but the house itself seems to be still standing.

The building is painted white, and from what he can tell there’s a veranda that wraps around the whole house; he can imagine lazy days spent chasing the sun around the house with a good book and a beer or two. He just doesn't know if that's wishful thinking or something he's done countless times before. 

He lowers the binoculars he picked up in Des Moines once he's convinced himself that there is nothing moving. There is no sign of any vehicles parked near the house, and everything by the barn and in the surrounding fields is still. Just because he can't see anything doesn't make him feel any easier about heading in there. At best it will be a house full of memories he may never get back, at worst there'll be someone waiting for him to walk through the door, and he won't know if they'll be friend or foe.

He jogs back to the where the Corvette is parked, to where Bones is stood leaning against the sun-warmed, and now dusty, metal. It's a far more welcome sight than the farmhouse he's just seen, and something in him wants to bundle Bones back in the car and just keep driving. But Jim can't spend his life looking over his shoulder to see who's in the shadows, he can't bring himself to do that to Bones either. His need for answers overrides everything else.

He nods once in response to Bones' unvoiced question, and slips into the driver's seat. He's still, hands gripping the wheel, even after Bones has climbed in after him and closed the door.

"You sure you want to do this?"

Jim turns his head, to where the house sits just out of view. "Want to? No I'm not sure; but I need to."

He sees Bones nod out of the corner of his eye when he turns his attention back to the dashboard of the car. The engine starts with a rumble and Jim steers the Corvette from the dusty shoulder and back down the highway towards the track that leads to the house. The track is uneven, the car bouncing on the deeper ruts. Jim glances in the rearview mirror, everything is obscured by dust, and it makes him cringe at the metaphor to what his life is now.

The track eventually flattens out into a paved courtyard in front of the house, but Jim doesn’t stop the car, instead driving back onto rough ground until the car can be hidden by the barn. He cuts the engine and reaches past Bones to retrieve the SIG from the glove box. Bones stays silent as Jim checks the magazine. It's becoming a habit each time he picks the gun up, even though he never touches the mag in between.

"Stay here," he orders before slipping from the car. Bones sighs loudly, but settles back in the seat and Jim hopes that means he'll stay put.

He checks the barn first. The padlock on the rear door is old and rusted, it doesn't look like it's been touched in years, the hinges equally as time-worn as the padlock. He edges down the side of the barn away from the house to the front doors. The padlock here is newer, and looks like it would still open smoothly, the hinges have been oiled and kept rust free. The lock is secure, so he makes a mental note to check in the barn later, once he knows the house is clear.

The grain silo stands seemingly untouched for decades. The domed metal roof is rusted brown, rivulets of iron trail down the brickwork like the running of wet paint. Moss lines some of the pointing between the bricks, a grid of vibrant green against the red of the fired brickwork. Wind-blown seeds have pollinated and the base of the silo is ringed by a carpet of upstanding corn and wheat. It's enough to let him know that no-one has been near the silo recently and he dismisses it.

The two-storey house stands further back. A grassy lawn loops in a horseshoe shape around the building, interrupted by a path leading to the front door, and separated from the house by a border of untamed shrubs and weeds. The grass is long enough to suggest it hasn't been touched since the arrival of Spring, and his apprehension lessens with the realization that no-one lives here. The house itself is silent. There's no hum of an air-conditioning unit, or muffled beat of indecipherable music. When he stills, all he can hear is the rustle of wind through the fields.

He's still alert as he walks the length of the gravel path, up the creaking front steps and onto the veranda. The window to the right of the front door is dusty, and he brushes enough of the dirt away to peer into what looks like a front room. The furniture is covered in dust sheets, and he relaxes further as he takes in more of the room. His heartbeat picks up at the sight of picture frames on the mantel above the fireplace, and he forces himself to look away and finish his task of checking out the perimeter. He tries the front door, and is happy at least to find it locked.

He follows the veranda around the house, noting where the boards creak or need replacing, brushing dust off each window he passes, mapping the dining room, the downstairs bath, and the large kitchen. The rear door into the kitchen is as unmoving as the front door, and so he continues his circuit until he's back staring at the front. There was no key in the safe deposit box back in San Francisco. With the amount of ID and passports, he can imagine matching safe deposit boxes in multiple countries and multiple cities, it's unlikely he'd have one solitary key in any of those boxes. The key must be here.

He studies the front of the house, looking for boards that might have been moved more often than others. He looks for stones in the border and plant pots that might disguise a key. He finds nothing and is contemplating the best way to break in with the least amount of damage when his brain stumbles over an abortive memory. Just like at the bank there's a knowledge there that he can't place, with no memory to explain how or why. He moves towards the top step and crouches down so he can curl his fingers around the edge. His fingers touch on a plastic pocket attached to the wood, and he feels around for an open end, his fingers dipping in and finding the metal of the key held within.

The key slots in the front door and when the lock sticks he tugs on the handle until it gives. The door creaks on opening, and his immediate thought is to leave it as a warning system. The interior of house smells musty, and dust motes dance on the dull sunlight that streaks through the dirty windows. He clears the rooms on the ground floor, purposefully keeping his eyes away from the picture frames in the living room, before approaching the stairs.

The first bedroom is impersonal, a master room littered with books but with nothing else to reflect on the occupier. He checks the closet and finds men's clothes, one of the labels indicating that they are his size. He clears the en suite, the main bath, and moves onto a second bedroom. The room is covered in more dust than the master bedroom, as though no-one has disturbed it for years. The décor indicates a child's room, a dusty robot sits on the edge of a shelf next to trophies and a partially deflated football. There's little else in the room, the closets are devoid of clothes, only a few boxes of well-loved toys shoved in one corner.

It's the last of the bedrooms that draws his attention. The walls are a deep blue and feature scattered decals of stars and spaceships, a theme that spreads to the faded drapes hanging in the window. He lifts the edge of a dust cover revealing a desk with school books sat on it, and a child's attempt at art, the space theme extending to this too. There's only one person shown in the painting. He swallows, and wonders how long loneliness has been a part of his life. He drops the dust sheet back into place and makes no attempt to check the closets. If anyone has been in this room they're welcome to the contents.

The room paints its own picture. He sees this as his room, his childhood. He sees the isolation, and the need for escape hidden in every surface. It's his corner of a house stuck in time. He wonders what brought him back here the first time, at what it was he was escaping from that would bring him back to somewhere that had clearly been abandoned so long ago. He doesn't doubt that the clothes in the master bedroom are his, or that he'll have whatever it is that his profession needs stored away in the house. He expects there'll be guns and ammo under the bed, a first aid kit in the bathroom, cash and ID in the dresser.

He grits his teeth and slams the door shut on the child's room. He eyes the steps to the attic, but he's satisfied no-one is in the house, and he's not ready yet to see what memories are tucked away up there where they'll be out of sight and mind. The state of the house is enough to unsettle him, and he's feeling a pang of shame at having to bring Bones into it. It's a place that makes him feel vulnerable rather than giving him the safe haven he had originally thought it to be. He runs down the stairs as if he can flee the place and everything linked to it, but he wants answers more than anything, and that means he's stuck here for now.

Bones is where Jim left him, and Jim watches him startle a little at his sudden appearance. "Find what you were looking for?" he asks.

Jim shakes his head. "Haven't really looked," he lies. "The place is safe, although it's not been lived in for a while, I figure if we can open the windows to air it out and clear away the dust, then it'll do."

Bones nods and gets out of the car. "I'll go find a store and get some food then if we're going to be staying."

"I'll go," he immediately bites back. He doesn't like the idea of Bones going off anywhere alone, and he's not quite ready to head back into the house with his thoughts either.

Bones though, shakes his head. "This is small-town America, Jim. Even if you haven't been here in years there'll likely be someone that still recognizes you and that's all kinds of awkward we don't need. No-one knows me here, and I'm pretty sure I can handle a grocery run without incident."

He still doesn't like the idea, even if it makes sense, so he grits his teeth as he digs into the back pocket of his jeans and pulls out the cash. He hands over some bills and the car keys. "Don't make me come looking for you."

Bones rolls his eyes and scowls at him before walking around the car to the driver's side. "Give me a couple of hours at least before you ride into town guns blazing. We wouldn't want to draw attention to ourselves now would we?"

He considers flipping the other man off, but Bones has ducked into the car and is pulling away before he can decide if he's the type of person for rude gestures; given it crossed his mind at all should probably be answer enough. Instead he watches the cloud of dust until it disappears from view. He eyes the house warily, not looking forward to going back inside, but he has to face up to it some time, and he'd rather do that while Bones isn't around to see him crack.

*

He has the windows open in all but the two child's bedrooms. Bones can have the master, he's determined to take the long comfortable looking couch he's unearthed from under a sheet in the living room. The fridge and freezer are cooling, he's swept the hardwood floors with the brush he found in one of the kitchen cupboards, and wiped down all the windows and the surfaces of dust. The mantelpiece where the photos sit stares back at him, it's the last place he needs to clean.

He mentally kicks himself with the push that he'd rather do this before Bones comes back and casts his critical eye over everything. He starts on the left, with the image of two boys. There's a slight tinge of yellow to the photograph, announcing its age. He wipes the dust from the glass of the silver frame. The boys are probably around three and seven, the older grinning a gap-toothed smile where one of the two front teeth is missing. The toddler is more shy, a wary face peering around the elder's legs, one hand gripping the fabric of his brother's mud splattered football jersey.

He turns the frame over, slips the catches to pull the back off to see if there's anything written on the back of the photo. All it reads is _Sammy and Jimmy, 09/30/1994_. At least he can be sure now that Jim Kirk is his real name. He takes comfort in having at least one thing confirmed as true.

The second image is of a man and woman and a small baby held between them. They look blindingly happy. He remembers the obituary notice, and knows this is Sammy, and not him. He glances across at the other photos, there are none with the same woman and another baby. But then what joy can you muster when the man you clearly loved is taken from you?

He sees himself in the man staring back at him. The same coloring, same sun-kissed brush to the hair, the same mouth and cool blue eyes. He wonders if his mother saw in him those same familiar features and mourned what she had lost. There's a fleeting twinge of hate for the man in the picture before he reminds himself that he doesn't know this person, doesn't know how he lived or died. He wipes the glass of the frame and sets it back in place, gives the wedding picture nothing more than a cursory wipe, and picks up the final picture.

The last image is clearly taken on the farm, the deep red of the barn looking far more vibrant then, despite the age of the photo, than it does now in the bright sunlight. It's the only image with both boys and a woman. He assumes this is Winona Kirk, not that it sparks any recognition. If it is, he can't deny that Winona Kirk is a beautiful woman, even years down the line from her wedding photo she's stunning. But in this image there's none of the brilliance of life and love shining from her eyes or her posture. She's smiling for the camera, but it doesn't reach tired eyes. Sam seems to be the only glue between the family, a hand on Jim's and his mother's shoulders the only connection from one side of the photo to the other. Jim can read the unhappiness in his ten year old eyes. He also doesn't want to know what it means that this is the last photo among the ones on display.

He'll look deeper later, see if he can find any indication of where Winona or Sam are within the drawers and cabinets around the house. The attic can wait, if these are the good memories lining the mantel, he doesn't want to know what is hidden away.

The cloth he's been using to dust is thrown on the kitchen counter. Digging around in one of the drawers he turns up a key ring with two keys on that look like they would fit the barn, there's also a key that fits the back door when he tries it. He glances at his watch, mentally giving Bones twenty minutes more before he allows himself to start worrying. If he's out near the barn he'll have a view of the long track to the house.

The barn doors open without a sound, and he files away the significance of that. There's not much within the huge space, it's certainly not a working farm anymore, even if it might have been at some point. The barn is more of a shed, dusty corners piled high with boxes, gardening equipment and a ride-on mower.

There's a tarpaulin draped over something towards one wall, and Jim heads over and slips the tarp away. He smiles at the motorbike hidden underneath, a beautiful mix of black leather and aluminum that glints in the sun from the open doorway. He runs a hand along the soft leather seat, and the shining black aluminum to the handle bars. He can't resist sitting astride her frame, and the position feels so right that he itches to give her a run. At least if Bones is much longer then Jim has the means to track him down... if he can find the key. He reluctantly steps away, dropping the tarp back over the frame.

In one corner is a worn ladder up to the mezzanine floor that loops around the walls a few meters above the ground. Jim picks his way around piled up boxes full of scrap and junk until his eyes stray to a pile that is covered by more tarp. There are two metal boxes stacked up, and Jim can't really say why he dismisses the first, but he's looking around for something to get into the bottom box. His eyes light on a crow bar at the other side of the barn, and once he's retrieved it he's snapping the padlock.

It's like being back in the bank. There are two handguns and associated clips, a short-barreled shotgun and cartridges, and a black plastic bag. He pushes the firearms aside as he reaches to pull the bag out. It holds what he expected - passports, cash, driving licenses - and something he didn't. There's a photograph tucked into one of the passports, of a man and woman, and three young boys. The photo is fairly recent, and he guesses from the family resemblance and from what he recognizes from the photos on the mantel this is Sam. He turns the photo over, reading and memorizing the Florida address scrawled there in looping handwriting. He digs deeper in the bag and there's an envelope, the address of the farm written in the same handwriting and Jim's name at the top.

Inside there's a single-sheet letter, and another slip of paper with the details of Delta flight vouchers from JFK to Fort Meyers, Florida. They're undated and, he assumes, unused.

He reads the letter within; it's an apology and a tentative hand reached out in a bid to start afresh. The signature at the bottom though is not Sam's, it's Aurelan, who introduces herself as Sam's wife. The letter is dated three years ago and is the only one in the bag. He doesn't know if he ever replied, he suspects not, but he at least must have thought about it if he bought plane tickets - one step closer to maybe closing a gap that opened up between them.

He's still holding the letter when he hears the now-familiar purr of the Corvette engine. He startles out of his thoughts and shoves the letter and the photo back in the envelope and into the bag. The boxes are stacked, re-covered by the tarp and he's standing at the barn door by the time Bones brings the car to a stop.

"Can you believe I had to go to the next town over to find a store," Bones complains as he gets out of the car. "Riverside's pretty much the ass end of nowhere, and Kalona ain't much better. I'm not even going to comment on the reaction I got to my accent, it's like they've never been out of the county, let alone the state."

He shakes his head in fond amusement. "What's the matter, Bones, not used to being hit on?"

"Not by women old enough to be my mamma, no."

There are frown lines etched in Bones' forehead, and Jim feels the urge to wipe them away, and leave a permanent tattoo saying 'hands off'. He shakes his head and pushes away from the doors pausing to make sure they're shut and padlocked again before he heads over to help Bones with the bags. "Are your ass cheeks feeling the pinch of wayward hands?"

"And then some," Bones mutters.

He leans far enough back to have a good look at Bones' ass, admiring the curve as he leans over to dig some of the bags out from the trunk. He can see the temptation. He quickly averts his eyes when Bones' straightens up, and almost drops the bags Bones suddenly thrusts at him. "Make yourself useful."

"Are we expecting company?" he asks, even if he hopes that's not going to be the case, especially not company that is armed and after his head.

Bones stops what he's doing, turns and stares at him. "How long are we staying here?"

He scrunches his shoulders in a parody of a shrug. He hasn't had time to think about it. Or more accurately hasn't wanted to think about it; how long they need to hide out here, what they’re hiding from.

"Exactly," Bones says, reading his silence for what it is. "There's not going to be any basic pantry items in there I'm guessing, so basic items we now have. The less frequently we have to go back to town the easier it will be to stay unnoticed, not to mention for the preservation of my ass."

Jim peers into one of the bags he's holding, spotting a tub of dried herbs, some cooking oil, and a block of butter among the fresh vegetables. He's hoping the ingredients mean Bones is feeling inclined to cook.

"Go on, get," Bones says, swatting his arm to get him moving. "The quicker these are put the way the faster I can get to my beer."

"Sir, yes sir!" Jim quips. He'd salute if he had a hand free, as it is he dodges Bones' attempts to whack him again and heads for the house, feeling more at ease somewhere he knows now is his, and that Bones is back within sight.

*

He sits on the veranda, a blanket around his shoulders watching the sun paint pastel shades of pinks and oranges against the dark clouds. He gives it another twenty minutes before the sun actually peeks above the horizon. He's not slept much deeper than a light doze, laying awake most of the night as he forces his senses to build a memory of a base line of awareness that he can register anomalies against. He listened for the creaks and the groans of the house settling, and the whisper of the wind and the sway of the crops until he could play the symphony on repeat without a mistake.

The coffee in his hands is cooling in the early morning chill and he sips at it, barely tasting the bitterness, his attention caught by a crow bursting into flight in the field. He'd told Bones as much as he knew, omitting the letter sat in the strongbox in the barn. Bones had listened, refrained from asking questions, and when Jim had finished talking he'd just patted him on the shoulder and disappeared to prepare dinner.

He can only suspect that the letter is in the barn rather than in the house because he's trying to distance himself from his family, a way to protect them from whatever trouble he carries around with him. He might not remember his brother, but that doesn't mean he wants his family to be in danger of becoming leverage against him. Leverage that Bones already is. He suspects that it's thoughts of what he's dragged Bones into, of what someone would do to the other man to get to Jim, that keeps him unsettled. Bones can't stay here. He has a life to get back to that has nothing to connect it to the shady world that Jim suspects he himself inhabits. He promised to fix it. And he will; even if it means cutting Bones loose, once he can be certain the man will be safe.

He isn't inclined to wait around in the depths of the Iowa countryside for memories or enemies to catch up to him. The former might never come, the latter might come too soon. The silence around the farm grates on his nerves, and he suspects cabin fever drove him into whatever life he has. He'd hoped for flashes of memories to be triggered by being somewhere that should be familiar, like with the bank, but there's nothing in the dated house that speaks to him of anything he wants to hear. The urge is there to take the bike, or the car that is now parked next to it in the barn, and just drive, anywhere… away. He's not sure that the life he has is something he wants to get back, but he is sure that the life he had in this house all those years ago is not for him anymore.

He stretches his legs out as the rays of sun hit the edge of the veranda and sneak towards him across the weathered woodwork. He supposes here is as good a place as any to make a stand. There's minimal impact on any innocent people, limited property damage beyond his own, and limited cover to anyone not in the house. Which also means limited cover to use to escape from the house, but he's trying not to think on that.

It's an hour later that he hears movement in the kitchen, the hum of the coffee maker and the click of the back door. Bones doesn't say anything as he closes the door behind him, holds out a fresh mug and then sits on the deck at Jim's side.

"You sleep much?" Bones finally asks when half of the coffee is gone.

He shrugs. "Some," he lies. "You?"

Bones tips his head back against the now warm wood of the house. "It's quiet out here. I'm used to yapping dogs and cars passing at all hours. But then I'm also used to sleeping when I can, which is the downside of working shifts. Don't worry about me, I can sleep through anything."

"I'll bear that in mind," he smiles, but it's not a gesture that reaches his eyes. He's tired. And while the bullet wound is well on its way to being healed, and the bruises from the hand-to-hand are fading, the lingering soreness and irritation all combine with the frustration of _not knowing_ to wear him out. They sit in silence, sipping coffee as the last of the pink is chased from the sky by the rising sun. And in that moment Jim is so damn grateful for the man at his side, and he's hoping that gratitude is all it is. Because if he falls for Bones, Jim's not sure he'll be able to let him go, and he knows he has to let go.

Breakfast is a quiet affair and Jim's twitchy for something to break the rolling monotony of his thoughts, and avoid the thoughtful looks Bones keeps directing his way. His attention drifts to the bike in the barn and his mind is made up, all he has to do is find the key. He starves off his agitation, and Bones' questions long enough to help with the dishes, but then as soon as Bones hits the shower Jim starts the hunt for the keys.

The keys turn up tucked at the back of a half-full sock drawer, and he can't bite back his grin as the cool metal digs into his palm as he grips them. He's out of the front door and into the barn without a backward glance. He pulls the tarp from the bike, sparing enough time to bunch the tarp up into a and shove it in a corner. He takes a moment to admire the machine, running his hand across the frame as he had done the day before. With a grin he kicks the stand away and pushes the bike past the Corvette towards the doors.

"That, is a fucking death trap," Bones says as soon as Jim wheels the bike from the barn. Jim can hear Bones' stance in his words. He glances over his shoulder and sure enough, there's the folded arms and disapproving eyebrow. He swallows hard, fighting back his reaction to the image Bones paints with his tussled towel-dried hair.

"I'm taking the time to live a little. Maybe the wind flying past my face will clear out some cobwebs," he says, forcing his voice to be somewhere near to normal.

"And maybe it'll blow you off the seat and leave you in a broken heap of road-rashed idiot in a ditch at the side of the highway."

He relaxes at the gruff tone and forces a grin as he sits astride the bike. "You'll fix me."

"I'm a doctor not a miracle worker," Bones grimaces. "At least wear a helmet."

"No helmet laws in Iowa, Bones," he says. He just catches Bones' muttered ' _Of course you'd remember that_ ' as he turns the key. The engines trips over into a beautiful roar of noise and he twists the throttle to feel the rumble as well as hear it. His pulse picks up at the feeling of power, and he just wants to head out, but there's a hand on his wrist. He looks up into Bones' worried expression.

"I don't want to drive the length and breadth of the state looking for you," he shouts over the noise of the bike. "And for god's sake don't make me have to scrape you up off the asphalt when I see you next."

He grins again and shakes Bones' grip free to pat his shoulder. "Don't worry about me, I'll be back before you realize I'm gone."

"Yeah right," Bones mutters. There's a lost look that flashes across his face before the familiar scowl returns and Jim feels those pangs of want and regret flare again.

"Just give me an hour to clear my head, okay," he says. He's not asking, but that's the way his words come across nonetheless.

Bones nods once, but he doesn't look happy about it. He steps back, his arms swinging to make an 'after you' gesture.

Jim slips his sunglasses on and lifts the brake, the bike shooting forward. Bones stands watching him go, visible in the mirrors for only a few seconds until the dust clouds out what Jim has left behind. His regret turns to guilt. He dragged Bones away from his life, into a run across the country away from gun-toting pursuers and all he can do is leave him in the middle of nowhere the moment he gets unsettled. He brings the bike to a stop at the end of the track, his head turning one way then the other along the deserted main road. He picks right, and in a pique of self-hatred guns the accelerator. 

He lets himself drift as he gets used to the bike and the power available with each slight twist of the throttle. He's relishing the control, the sense of freedom that comes with the countryside and the warm air sweeping past in a blur. The city limits of Muscatine force him to slow down, and he follows the road into town until he's sat staring at the fast running waters of the Mississippi.

He turns the key and the engine shuts off, the heat from the exhausts warps the air until it shimmers. He kicks the stand down and sits back in the seat. The air's a little cooler here, carried along with the flow of the water and it ruffles his sweaty hair. He's not inclined to try to tame it. He's out here because he can't think straight with the ghosts in the house and having Bones there - the responsibility he feels for the man starting to get drowned out by affection. And he shouldn't get attached, his gut tells him that much, he just suspects that he's too late for that notion.

With no memories, he has no concept of what kind of lover he is. He doubts he's celibate, he carries too much confidence, finds flirting easy, and sees beauty in the people around him. He's also become used to the face he sees in the mirror and knows that he's good looking. He figures he's an equal-opportunity man too, what with his appreciation of the female form… and particularly of Bones' form.

He sighs leans forward against the handlebars and watches a couple of men jog past on the river path. They're both lean, clearly in shape, and their shorts show off strong leg muscles. He can admire their form, but as he watches them disappear into the distance he can't help thinking of strong shoulders and dark hair wet from the shower… He shakes his head and turns his attention back to the river.

So far he's worked out that he's paranoid, and well prepared for both fight and flight. He can weigh up the measure of another person and categorize them into friend or foe in a moment's glance. He has a house full of unhappy childhood memories and an estranged brother. Nowhere does it say he has any friends, no addresses or numbers in little black books, whether coded or not. There are none of his pictures in the house beyond the ones on the mantel, or hidden away in the metal box in the barn with the only other items the old him considered worth keeping. There are no photos of him with kids outside of his brother, no pictures of comrades in arms hunkered down in warzones, no shared smiles over a beer. He's hiding from his past and from the world as a whole, yet without that knowledge to play on his conscience he's attached himself to Bones.

He's starting to hate the life he's discovering, especially when he realizes that life causes him to be uneasy and want nothing more than to flee when he finds someone he can call a friend. Yet even though he hates it, he recognizes the need to keep people at a distance. Bones has led a normal life, works a normal job, picks his friends without having to think on their motives, and yet had the misfortune to bump into the wrong person at the wrong time. Jim's dragged Bones out of his normal life and into his abnormal one. Maybe Bones would have been okay if Jim had just walked away, but even a week ago it wasn't a risk he wanted to take. Now, when he recognizes his attraction, and the connection between them that feels so comfortable, Jim can't bear the thought of Bones being used to get to him.

He doesn't know how Bones feels about him, whether there's attraction too, but Jim would like to try to build something, and that feels like it should be momentous. When all the mess is cleared up and he doesn't have one eye permanently looking over his shoulder, he can see himself driving Bones back to his townhouse and watching him head off to work in the mornings without worrying if he'll come home. It’s a thought that holds so much appeal that Jim wonders if it’s attainable.

It doesn't mean he can't test the waters. He's sure there must be some inbuilt charm offensive he can utilize to see how receptive Bones might be to a relationship down the line.

Feeling more at ease with his decision, he starts the engine and kicks the stand away. Turning the bike away from the water he follows his route back, pushing the bike to its full potential once the Muscatine city limits are behind him. He turns into the track to the farmhouse with a grin on his face and an apology on the tip of his tongue. But as he nears the house, neither of those remain, not when he sees the unfamiliar car parked outside the house. His stomach drops and his ' _sorry_ ' turns into a silent plea. He can't hide his approach, not with the noise the bike makes, but he can fake nonchalance and put the bike in the barn. And while there he can retrieve a gun from the strongbox in the hay loft. At best, Bones will be collateral, at worst…

He keeps his eyes moving, looking for threats as he steers the bike closer to the house; he's trusting his instincts right now, because he _can't_ over-think this. He rides the bike into the barn this time, leaving the engine running to hide his movements and bide him the seconds he needs to retrieve a gun, slotting a spare clip in his back pocket. Heading back to the bike he turns the engine off, leaving the key in the ignition in case it's needed for a fast getaway.

The fact that there's only one car limits the number of potential targets, what it doesn't tell him is who or what they might be carrying. He takes the route that affords him the most cover, slipping from the barn and around the silo to the right corner of the house where there are fewer windows. He's learned the route across the veranda that avoids the creaks, and he steps carefully, peering into windows to find where the threats are. He doesn't see anything until he gets to the kitchen. He bites back his sigh of relief when he sees the back of the now familiar head of Bones sat at the table. There's an older man sat facing him, someone Jim thinks he should recognize, but no matter how much he wills it that recognition eludes him.

The man's dark hair is liberally threaded with gray, silvering at the temples. His blue eyes are wise, and watchful as he keeps his attention on Bones. Jim senses someone who's used to being in charge, someone who won't take any shit. He might be older than him, but he's not untrained, he can tell that in his posture, the hard lines of muscle underneath the lightweight jacket. He would say military, if he had to guess. There's a gun on the table in front of the man, the barrel pointed towards Bones, and within the man's reach but not in his hand. Jim considers that as a point in his favor.

He's hoping the back door is still unlocked, and he shifts position, careful not to wander into the view of the windows. He takes a deep breath to steady himself, before he's twisting the handle and bursting through the door, gun trained on the visitor.

The man makes an abortive move for the gun, twisting in his chair. He might have stopped and relaxed when he saw Jim, but that doesn't mean Jim's letting him move another inch, and he pushes the man back in his chair.

"Jim, what the hell?" The man's voice is deep, a California lilt to it, and despite his apparent surprise at Jim's choice of entrance, and his familiarity, Jim's not taking any chances.

"No. You do not get to come here and hold a gun against my house guest," he sneers, keeping his gun level.

Before he can tell him, Bones reaches across the table to recover the gun and ejects the magazine. He moves from his seat to stand at Jim's side and Jim relaxes a little.

"Now, I doubt pleasantries have been exchanged so why don't you introduce yourself in a nice civilized manner."

The man looks like he wants to protest, the furrowing of his brow likely the first sign of trouble, but he smoothes out the lines and holds out a hand towards Bones. "Christopher Pike, Jim's…" he glances at Jim when he pauses, and Jim nods once, hoping that's enough to get Pike to talk freely. "…boss," he finishes.

Bones reaches forward far enough to give a quick shake of Pike's hand. "Leonard McCoy, Jim's house guest." Jim smirks at the sass in Bones' voice.

Pike glares at Jim as though daring him to push it further, and Jim's comfortable enough to lower the hammer and put the safety back on the gun. He tucks it into the back of his jeans.

"You inclined to tell me what the hell is going on and why you went off the grid?" Pike leans back in his seat, his arms crossing.

He shrugs, not knowing what to say when he has no idea who he's talking to. "Let's just say I ran into a bit of trouble, McCoy here helped me out."

"And you didn't think to call in? This is the last place I would have expected you to run back to."

Jim shares a glance at Bones. Bones tips his head and shrugs lopsidedly, and Jim knows he's in too deep when he knows what the gesture means. He looks away and sighs audibly.

"Look, I hope I'm not making a mistake here, but I have no idea who the hell you are."

Pike's eyebrows rise comically, and it takes him a moment before he must realize that Jim is being truthful. His folded arms slip and he moves forward in his seat, raking a hand across his face. "You're serious."

"Very."

Pike glances at McCoy before turning his attention back to Jim. "What the last thing you remember?"

"Walking in front of McCoy's car in San Francisco with a bullet in my shoulder and a head wound. Everything before that is gone. I'm hoping you can fill in a hell of a lot of blanks."

“Fuck.” The silence lingers for a long while after, Jim not taking his eyes off Pike. "How did you know to come here?" Pike eventually asks.

"Found a driving license," he says simply. Pike doesn't need to know that some things come back to him in flashes of inspiration. "How did _you_ know to come here?" he parrots back, hoping his location is still safe now there's someone else here.

He watches Pike pinch the bridge of his nose before the man sighs. "I think I need a drink."

Bones pushes away from the counter and retrieves a bottle of beer from the fridge. He grabs the bottle opener from the drawer and pops the lid before putting the bottle down in front of Pike. Jim's secretly glad when Bones moves back to his side, their shoulders touching briefly in what Jim knows is Bones' unspoken support.

Pike takes a long pull from the bottle, swallowing thickly before placing it back on the table, glancing between Jim and Bones. "You sure about him? Because this is something only you need to hear."

Jim shrugs. "Yeah, I'm sure. I'm going to tell him anyway, so it would save me the time."

He can see Pike's jaw tense, but Jim's fully prepared to out-stubborn him. It takes a few moments of staring Pike down, but the older man huffs out a loud breath.

"I am your boss, that much is true. You're an agent with the CIA, have been for the last four years. You came to us from the Navy, having joined right out of college. Before you disappeared you were in Columbia tracking down Nero's operations and his arms supply link into California. You sent word that you were going to follow the shipment to ID the targets on the US side. That was over three weeks ago. After two weeks we split the team up to try all your safe houses, this was the last try and it's not on any list. I know about this place because I knew your parents."

He's had Pike's scrutiny throughout his little speech, as if the man has been trying to find any recognition or hint of a lie; Jim suspects he'll be disappointed from the lack of reaction. While he has no basis to confirm what Pike is telling him, Jim knows it fits with how he sees himself, and it's the only reason he doesn't suspect Pike of lying.

He knows the itch under his skin, the need to keep moving away from this place and the loneliness it causes in him is probably what sent him to the Navy. The thought of wide open seas is one that appeals, but he's intrigued by the change to CIA, reverting back to running solo again, and wonders if that's just the way he is, the need to look after only himself, push himself to his limits. He's glad at least that he's one of the good guys.

He wonders what it means that Pike knew his parents, whether that means his dad was in the armed services too. He makes a mental note to ask.

"McCoy scraped me up off the hood of his car and patched me up nine nights ago," Jim says. "Four days later two gunmen broke into his house and tried to kill me. I picked McCoy up from the hospital where he works and we drove out here."

Pike turns to Bones and nods. Jim feels Bones shuffle a bit, but he returns the clear gesture of thanks with a nod of his own.

"I don't know who they were," Jim admits. "But based on what you've just told me, I would hazard a guess that they're something to do with Nero and his shipment. At least one of them is dead, the other I don't know. Do you think you can find out? I'd also appreciate clearing the mess up so that it doesn't affect McCoy here."

Pike nods. "I'll sort it out," he says as he digs into his pocket for a cell phone. Jim twitches, but pushes back the sudden desire to stop him. He does seem to instinctively trust Pike, but he's been trying to keep Bones safe for the last few days, and now he's settled his thoughts and accepted Bones as someone important, he's more determined than ever to not let him down. Pike speaking to someone else about the situation unnerves him.

"So, a farm boy in more ways than one, huh?" Bones mutters, his voice low as Pike continues to talk into his cell.

"So it would seem," Jim answers, somehow aware of the farm boy nickname for the CIA even when he can't remember anything of the agency itself. He had hoped that all the memories would come flooding back once he knew where he came from, but they're staying stubbornly out of reach of his consciousness.

"Explains a few things," Bones shrugs.

He turns to look at him when he hears the amusement in Bones' drawl. "Like?" He finds he wants to know, to determine what it is about his nature that singles him out.

There's the almost impossible arch to Bones' eyebrow. "Beyond the guns, multiple ID's, bullet holes and general paranoid behavior?"

He shrugs. "Sounds like it's all in a day's work."

Bones snorts, whatever reply he might have given is interrupted when Pike asks for his address. Bones pauses before answering, and Jim smirks as if to call him on his own paranoia. Bones just glares, trying to stop Jim from saying anything out loud, and repeats his address for Pike.

Whatever else he might have said is lost in the silence as they wait for Pike to finish his call. Pike slips the cell back in his pocket when he's done and makes no other move to say anything. Jim shares a look with Bones, and he finds it easy to read the silent push for him to say something. He sighs and resists the urge to shake his head.

"So what now?"

Pike leans back in his seat, and any wariness he had when Jim had burst through the door is now gone. "The office will be searching for any sign of Nero and his gang on the mainland. When I hear of a positive sighting then we can decide what move to make depending on who and where. I think we're pretty safe here for now but I'd like to move to a safe house soon, that way you're better protected and we have resources at our disposal."

"I take it you're sticking around," Jim says, knowing the answer anyway. He's glad in a way that someone will be with them, someone who knows the threats and has the skills to repel them.

"I figure that's best for everyone, don't you?" Jim hates the almost smug look on Pike's face.

He glances at Bones, who looks a little unsure. Jim tries to give him a smile of confidence, but he's not 100% feeling it himself. Still, Bones must read something in it because he huffs out a breath before handing the gun back to Pike. Pike nods and tucks the gun in the back of his pants.

"I have a laptop in the car," Pike says. "Maybe you'll find enough in your file to trigger something."

Jim doubts it, not if this house, full of what he suspects should be powerful emotions and memories, can't kick start his damaged head. That doesn't mean he doesn't want answers to questions he doesn't know he needs to ask, so he nods and waits for Pike to leave the house before he says anything else. Bones, as usual, beats him to it.

"You trust him?"

He stares at the door Pike disappeared through and thinks hard on the word trust. Instinct has to play a part, because it's all he can rely on, and his instinct is saying yes. What's urging him to be careful is that part of him that's attached to the man next to him. Pike knew of this place though, alleges to know his parents, and from what Jim guesses, that's closer than most people get.

"Mostly," he says finally. 

Bones is silent as he straightens up and digs into a cabinet for the coffee. "Go fill your empty head with state secrets," he says as he tips the beans into the coffee machine. "If you need me, holler."

Jim smiles, he's grateful for that unerring support, for the trust Bones keeps granting him. He slaps a hand to Bones' shoulder as Pike comes back into the house, meeting his eyes before he turns and enters the front room. Jim's touch lingers a little longer than it should; a light squeeze of Bones' shoulder his unspoken thanks.

When he enters the front room, Pike has claimed the sole chair, his fingers dancing across the keys of the laptop. He sets the computer on the coffee table turning the screen Jim's way as he sits himself down on the couch. Jim picks the laptop up and settles back as he waits for the documents Pike has selected to load.

"Never thought I'd see the day," Pike says, his rich voice breaking the silence.

"What day?" Jim asks absentmindedly as his attention pulled back to his personnel file as it finishes loading.

"Oh, the day when someone finally got through your defenses."

Pike's voice is mild, and full of amusement. Jim's as intrigued by the tone as he is by the words. "Meaning?" he asks, turning to face the other man.

"Meaning," Pike says with a smile as he props his feet up on the low coffee table. "That you take on the tough jobs because you think you don't have anyone waiting at home, nor do you want anyone at home for longer than a night. I think this McCoy has got under those defenses while you were no longer trying so hard to keep them fortified."

He hates the way that Pike might just be right. "And you'd know."

Pike smirks. "Better than you right now."

He doesn't answer. Instead he's staring at his image on the file, the white peaked cap, the red trimmed collar of the navy blue jacket. Marine Corp then. His file confirms his date of birth from the license, lists a couple of schools in Iowa before some in California and off to Annapolis. He flicks over the training, and his service records, noting some of the names of the ships and overseas bases as he skims through to the CIA records. His file says he's been with them for four years, and after an initial partnership that seems to have ended badly in North Korea two years ago, Jim's been running solo. He's sure there's more to that change in operational status than the black and white pages reveal.

He pauses when he reaches the section on family and associates. He's not sure he wants confirmation of his suspicions that he's alone, but he'd like to know if his mother is alive at least. He hasn't found anything in the house that would tell him either way. Breathing in deep he clicks open the section. It starts with his father, the ominous lettering after his name telling Jim more than it should do - _USMC, KIA 1991_. He can see his childhood laid out, a mother grieving a lost love, left with an infant child that reminds her of what she's lost, a child that then follows in his father's footsteps into the world that took her husband from her. He can't blame the parenting skills of someone he can't recognize, of experiences he can't remember living through, but perhaps he understands why there's nothing in the house of hers beyond her likeness on the mantle.

There's a list of parents and grandparents, mostly gone. Apparently he still has a grandfather living somewhere in Florida, he expects it's not too far from Sam, he also realizes that this must be where his colorful middle name has come from. Grandpa Tiberius Kirk is in his mid-seventies and appears fit and well. Jim's not sure what he feels about that. He'd presume that there'd be at least one picture of grandfather and grandson on the mantle if the relationship was anything he'd want to remember. He raises his eyes to the photos that are displayed, and realizes there's little there to be happy about in the images staring back at him.

Winona Kirk's name sits just below that of George. He hesitates before giving himself a mental kick and opening her file. Iowa is his mother's home, there's a maiden name that holds no familiarity, she has no siblings and her parents are deceased, her mother only in the last year. He wonders if he returned home to go to the funeral, but as soon as he thinks it he dismisses the thought. His mother is alive, living overseas flitting from one construction project to another as she builds bridges. He almost snorts at the thought of her building metaphorical bridges between them, something to repair what Jim suspects were long since burnt to ashes and swept away in the ensuing silence. 

If she tries now to rebuild, while he has no memory, nothing but suppositions based on the emptiness of a childhood home, then he's not even sure he could do it. Being stared at with decades of memories to draw on that he can’t understand and the prejudice that goes with them would be too much. He thinks about Sam, whose wife contacted him instead of himself, of his grandfather he has no evidence for, of an absent mother. He wonders if he should start over, build new relationships rather than carry the silence of broken ties that he can't remember the reasons for. He senses he'd be starting from scratch anyway, even if those decades of memories were intact.

He skim reads Sam's entry, knowing enough from Aurelan's letter without needing to know more; not yet anyway. There's a long list of names, one-night-stands and short-lived relationships that the agency has felt the need to look into, and Jim's not sure if he should be ashamed of the list, or annoyed at the intrusion. Perhaps any shame should be pinned to the three months that mark the longest of his relationships, but none of it comes as any surprise. He suspects that once you sign onto the agency then any sense of privacy is trained out of you until there's nothing the people controlling you don't know, and everything they know can be used to their advantage. There's no room left for embarrassment in that.

Pike's left open a tab with details of Nero and his gang. Jim's not overly concerned with what it is they've done; if he was sent after them then there must be a reason and if he's a good little soldier then he'll do as he's told. His concern is what they look like. To keep Bones safe, he needs to be able to recognize each gang member. He goes through the images slowly, committing each face and mark, each tattoo and piercing, to memory. There are two faces he recognizes, he doesn't spend too long looking at either. The one he killed in Bones' kitchen is of no consequence any more, the other he knows well enough to find again in a crowd.

He spends a little longer looking at Nero's photo, reads enough of his bio to give him information as to motive and what he might have to face in terms of skill and mentality. Nero, it seems, doesn't give a fuck about anyone anymore. Jim does. That might be his weakness, but it gives him more determination to not fail. And he won't. He can't.

When he's done he shuts the lid of the laptop and places it on the table. He has answers now, and while the memories aren't there, he can at least imagine some of the emotions to go with the black and white text. He just wonders how much he's prejudicing himself by using his first impressions of this place and the photos to paint those feelings.

"I served with your dad," Pike says softly, breaking into Jim's thoughts.

He turns his head, trying not to show interest in the look he gives Pike.

Pike's lips curl upwards. "You gave me that same look the first time I said those words."

He turns away, staring instead at the laptop, wishing in part that he's found the answers there instead of in Pike's knowing look. "Yeah, well I bet I knew just as little about him back then as I do now."

Pike shuffles a little in his seat and sighs. "Your father loved you Jim, even if he never met you. You were all he spoke about, you, Sam and Winona. When he died he did so saving a lot of lives, mine included, and I swore I'd do what I could to look after you all."

He looks away from the laptop, glancing at the photograph on the mantel of two boys and their unhappy mother and wondering if Pike was the one behind the camera lens, whether he slotted into that gap his father's death had left behind. Looking at the photo, Pike hadn't fit, certainly not into the gaping hole Winona carried around with her.

"I didn't say I did a good job of it," Pike says. There's a sad lilt to his tone, and Jim turns to him, noting his gaze has gone to the same photo that Jim's did.

Pike swallows hard enough for Jim to notice the momentary swell of his throat before he turns back to him. "You were a pain in the ass. Got into more trouble than anyone else. Most times your charm and quick wits got you out of it as quickly as you found it, but there were too many fights and bail outs, and I gave you an ultimatum. That's where the Navy came in, and I'm not sorry I pushed you in that direction, no matter what your mother said to me."

He ducks his head away when he hears the truth in what Pike's saying. It's easy to believe he was a lonely kid looking for attention and something to take away the itch to escape being trapped in this place. He wonders how many of the scars on his face came from a glass or someone's fist, someone bigger than him that he wanted to provoke in order to feel something, anything.

"You needed the direction, something to apply all that genius to," Pike says softly. "Because you are smart, Jim. You're one of the best strategists and tacticians we have. You seem to have the luck of the saints too."

"Yeah, well they didn't help me this last time," he says bitterly, fingertips following the long pink scar across his forehead that came courtesy of his efforts to bring down Nero.

He can see Pike shrug out of the corner of his eye. "On the other hand you could say they did. You're still alive, you stumbled upon the one person who could and would help you, and you found your way back home. I'm not saying you're perfect. In fact you're reckless to the point of being dangerous to others, you've no respect for authority and the rules, and your lack of self-restraint gets you into more trouble than anyone else I know. But I trust you to come out on top eventually."

"Thanks, I think," he mutters.

Pike snorts, but anything else he might say is interrupted by the ringing of his cell phone. Jim tenses and straightens up as Pike presses to answer, and he listens as Pike speaks to someone named Spock. There's not much he can pick up from the one-sided conversation, but he does work out that Nero, or his men at least, have been seen somewhere in Illinois. He's not sure if he's relieved that he won't have to go looking too far for Nero, or wary that Nero is so close to them, to Bones. He thinks back to what damage he might have done to their anonymity by taking the bike out, stopping his thoughts before he imagines what might have met him had it been Nero's car and not Pike's when he returned. For the sake of his already damaged mental state, that's not something he’s willing to dwell on.

"So where is he?" he asks, as soon as Pike ends the call.

Pike lays his cell phone on the arm of the chair, a careful and deliberate move to stall. "Some of his men were captured on the vid feeds coming into O'Hare a few hours ago. Nero wasn't with them."

Jim resists the urge to tap his fingers, instead digging his chipped nails into the denim of his thigh. He made a promise to Bones and he needs to fix this. With someone on his side, he can take the fight to Nero instead of sitting around waiting for Nero to come to them. Pike meets his determined gaze head on when he looks up at him.

"Nero isn't stupid enough to make rash moves. If anything he's incredibly patient. We waited years for him to make the mistake that allowed us to get near him, don't think he's making one now by letting his men be seen. He's showing his face because you're off the grid, and as soon as you put yourself back on it, he'll be on your ass."

"Maybe that's what I'm counting on," he replies.

Pike breathes in deep, his gaze not veering from Jim's. "I'm pulling your team in."

"My team?"

Pike smirks. "You don't think we let you out on your own without solid research and back-up do you?"

He shrugs, he doesn't know, having not given any thought to how the CIA run their operations. Pike shakes his head and reaches over for the laptop, and he's quiet while he searches for what he needs, turning the laptop round when he finishes.

"That's your team."

He takes the laptop from Pike, noting the number of tabs open.

"I'll let you get acquainted while I work out how to get them here under Nero's radar."

"Not here," Jim states firmly. He's not prepared for two sides of his life to meet, not when he can't defend his past, nor when he feels like he'll always need somewhere off the grid to run to.

Pike nods, although Jim can tell the older man doesn't like the idea. "Alright. We have a number of safehouses in Chicago, and a regional office. We should be able to pull together enough resources to stay off the radar until we can agree on a plan of action."

"McCoy's coming with us." He doesn't know why he needs to stress that to Pike, but he's not leaving Bones undefended, even if that means taking him closer to the lion's den.

Pike stares at him for a long while until he finally breaks contact and sighs. "Whatever you want, Jim, but I hope you know what you're doing."

Jim hopes so too.


	5. Chapter 5

*

Jim has worked out that he's a man of action. Staying in one place with little to test his mind or his body makes him itch with the need to break the tedium. He leaves Pike to his plans and Bones to the preparations he needs to make for whatever he's decided on for dinner, and steps out onto the veranda. Jim will look over what Pike and his team come up with before he agrees to it. He's happy to put his own life on the line, but he's not prepared to do the same with anyone else, least of all Bones.

The weather hasn't changed since they arrived; the navy blue of the sky a solid canvas across which the sun still slowly meanders. The dry heat is lessened by the breeze that seems to have followed him from Muscatine, and Jim pauses at the railings at the edge of the porch and just absorbs the silence. His gaze sweeps over the dusty colored corn fields. There's a slight line in the corn leading away from the farmhouse, like a well-trodden path that nature has started to reclaim now that heavy feet no longer push through. It's a draw that's too tempting to Jim's unsettled state to ignore.

Little dust clouds amass from under each fall of his feet, leaving stains on the once bright white of his sneakers. His hands brush against the stalks of the corn as he passes, the tassels occasionally sweeping across his face as the stalks sway with stronger gusts of wind. He loses orientation the further he gets from the house, the corn twisting around him in a whisper of undecipherable conversation. The path is still easy to follow though, seemingly worn into the dry earth over the years, and eventually the rustle of the crops is in harmony to the trickle of water that steadily swells to a crescendo as Jim reaches the river.

He settles under the shade of one of the trees that hug the shores of the English River. Above him, hanging from one of the sturdier branches are time-worn ropes. He can imagine two adventurous boys on hot days racing through cornfields to the riverbank, launching themselves into the cool water from the end of those ropes. He's tempted to climb up high, to see if a younger self etched words and thoughts into rough bark. It's what he would do, he can imagine a younger self doing the same. There are enough branches large enough to accommodate two boys and their secrets. Leaning back against the tree, Jim wonders what adventures they found, what worlds they invented to escape the one just the other side of the corn.

It's not long before he gives in to temptation. The bark scratches his palms as he climbs the tree to the branch the ropes are tied around and settles down, his back against the trunk, legs resting along the branch. He doesn't know how much time passes, not until he hears the corn rustle from more than just the wind. He stays silent, not knowing if it will be Pike or Bones that's more likely to seek him out, he's yet to fully determine the depth of Pike's connection to the Jim Kirk he thinks he knows.

The head of dark hair identifies the interloper as Bones long before he hears the muttered "Dammit Jim." He's unable to check his snort and Bones' head snaps up at the sound.

"What the hell are you doing, are you five? Get down before you fall down and do even more damage to your beat-up self."

Jim smiles at the concern, veiled as it is under Bones' chastisement. "Chill, I've been climbing trees since I was a kid."

"Oh, you can remember the irresponsible moments of your childhood all of a sudden?"

"Nah," Jim sighs, "I carved my name into the branch up here." He unfolds his legs, letting them drop so he's straddling the branch and rubs the tip of his finger along the childish scrawl that's weather-worn into the bark. He wonders when Jimmy gave way to Jim; probably much too soon. "Didn't you ever climb trees as a kid?"

Bones huffs and crosses his arms. "Yeah I did. That was until I had some sense broken into me."

Jim turns his gaze away from his carved name and down to the top of the brown head. "You fell out of a tree."

Bones is silent for a long while. "My dad was with me. And the way he took care of me, well, that was the moment I knew I wanted to be a doctor."

His voice is hushed, barely audible over the rushing water, but Jim's attention is zeroed in on the man and he hears the words and the melancholy of them as Bones likely remembers the day. Jim's still not going to ask. He can't offer anything in return, no stories of childhood innocence. All he has is a well-worn path to a tree with his name carved into it, and a love of space now hidden under layers of dust. Jim mentally shakes his head.

"Did you need me for something?"

Bones looks up then, his face twisting into his habitual expression that informs Jim he's said something stupid. "Daydreaming has made you lose track of time. If you want your dinner still warm then you need to shift your ass."

Jim blinks, turning his head to look upstream, through the heavy canopy of leaves to where the sun is kissing the horizon. The previous blue skies are now awash with yellows and reds, the silvery glow of the crescent moon coming through brighter with the fading light. "Guess I could eat."

Jim eyes the distance to the ground, the worn ropes and the route he'd taken to get to this branch, opting to just drop the distance. He swings his leg over the branch and wraps his arms round it. Out of the corner of his eye he sees the moment Bones realizes what he's going to do; his arms unfold and he shuffles forward seemingly ready to steady Jim's landing. Jim smiles to himself as he swings round and lets go. The landing is easy enough, but he stumbles a little, and the smile freezes on his face as Bones' hands grab his hips to steady him.

Bones is behind him, and Jim's glad that the other man can't see his face even when he must feel the sudden stiffening of Jim's frame.

"You okay?"

The drawled words are too close to Jim's ear, a tease that heats his already sun-warmed skin even more. The hands are hot, long fingers curling around his hips. Jim's mind can't help but imagine how they'd feel against his bare skin, how the fingertips would dig into flesh and muscle, the thumbs pressing forward, the fingers pulling him back. His previous fantasies melt away to pale nothingness. He knows the strength in those hands now, and yet even a steadying touch feels like a caress.

And he can't deal with it.

Not yet.

He steps forward, suppressing a shiver as those hands slide away from his hips, leaving the skin under the fabric burning. "Yeah, ribs just complained a little."

He hopes Bones can't hear the obvious lie. If he can, the doctor in him isn't concerned enough to want to check anything, and Jim's grateful for the small amount of privacy that gives him. 

"Well come on then, or dinner may be a lost cause. I have no idea what you secret agent types are like in a kitchen and I don't trust Pike enough to leave him too long stirring the sauce without any supervision."

Jim stalls a second before following Bones as they push back through the corn field towards the farmhouse. He keeps his eyes unwaveringly on his feet, watching his step rather than the view of the man ahead of him. The temptation is hard to ignore, and as soon as they step into the house Jim disappears to the bathroom. The faucets are turned on, masking his inactivity as he braces himself against the basin and stares at his reflection in the ornate mirror. The willpower he needs to keep Bones at arms' length is swirling and disappearing down the drain with the water. 

He knows he needs to talk to Bones about what it is they might have, but with Pike here he needs to wait a little while longer; he’ll just hold out until Nero is dealt with so there’s nothing left hanging over them. 

Decision made, he washes his hands, turns off the taps and heads to dinner, praying he doesn't slip and give himself away again.

Bones' cooking is basic, but tasty, managing to conjure up a dish that Jim wouldn't have been disappointed to pay for had they still been on the road. It's only when he and Pike have cleared away the dishes that he realizes that Bones has left them to themselves, and to whatever plans they see fit. Plans that could bring Bones a world of trouble; not that Jim hasn't done that already.

It's the calming presence that Jim realizes he's missing. The only steady experience Jim has to recall are the moments with Bones, the evenings they spend whether they pass in companionable silence, or with beers and a game of pool over a heated discussion of random facts that Jim can pluck from the blankness of his mind. Instead of that calm, Jim spends his evening refining their strategy and ensuring he knows intimately the way his 'team' works, their strengths and weaknesses. When they call it a night, Jim feels that he's as prepared as someone with no memories can be.

The turmoil begins again when he realizes that he's going to have to give up the sofa he's been calling his bed to Pike. He's at the top of the stairs when he discovers the lack of options that he's left with. The thought of disturbing either his or Sam's room makes him turn to the only other option, the master bedroom. He'll sleep on the floor, if Bones will let him stay with him, but he just can't torture himself hoping that memories in the dusty remnants of a forgotten childhood will somehow materialize. As for the master bedroom… if he had any hang-ups about using the room before then he wouldn't have expected his clothes to be hanging in the closet.

He raps his knuckles lightly against the half-open door, even the light touch causes the door to swing soundlessly inwards. Bones looks up from the book he's likely appropriated from the stacks the 'old Jim' has left lying around. He's still dressed, except for the now bare feet, and Jim's mostly grateful for that.

The glass of bourbon Bones must have brought upstairs with him earlier lies nearly empty on the dresser, the amber liquid diluted by the melted ice so it's almost clear. Bones pushes it to one side to make room for his book as he sits up. "You okay?"

He's not really, but it's not something he can verbalize. So instead he nods and pastes on a smile he doesn't feel and points to the free side of the bed. "Do you mind if I steal the pillows and sleep on the floor in here? I didn't get around to cleaning out the dust from the other rooms and I offered Pike the couch. I suspect the old man snores, and I know you don't so I thought I'd take the floor over the noise."

Bones shakes his head and raises an eyebrow. "Because sleeping on the floor will do your battered body a world of good. You can sleep in the bed."

"I didn't come in here to kick you out of the bed, I just thought you wouldn't mind if I took the floor seeing as though we didn't kill each other sharing the hotel rooms."

Bones huffs and stands, pulling the covers down on both sides of the bed. "I'm not kicking you onto the floor. We can share."

That kind of temptation isn't on Jim's agenda and he shakes his head as he starts to back up towards the door. "No, look I didn't mean to start an argument, I'll just go clean up one of the kid's rooms."

"It's a goddamn king-size." Bones sounds pissed, and Jim really didn't want that emotion to be associated with the two of them and the sharing of a bed. "I know for a fact you don't fidget when you sleep - that's if you sleep, and that's a whole other discussion we could be having. So just get in the damn bed and stop being a child about it!"

He wants to protest as much as he wants to throw his clothes off and dive onto the bed yelling ' _take me already_ ', but he's not having that discussion when there's Pike downstairs. Nor is he willing to start something that will only complicate what he needs to accomplish with Nero first. Bones has turned his back to him, as if he assumes the argument is over. He's probably right, because Jim's let the silence linger too long to come back with anything that won't make him look like the petulant child Bones has just called him out to be. Besides, whatever words he finds disappear the moment Bones pulls his tee over his head and his hands drop to the buckle of his pants.

Jim tears his eyes away before the temptation to touch overcomes him, and in a fit of self-consciousness he gets rid of his own clothes before diving under the covers as prim as a virgin on their wedding night. Jim can feel the heat of his cheeks and he's glad Bones has already flicked the lamp off before he slips far more languidly into the other side of the bed.

He rides the bounce of the mattress as Bones settles next to him. The silence rings out loud, and he feels the awareness of Bones' warmth prickle his skin, the itch to move away and keep going builds with each breath in and out. He has to clench his teeth to stop himself from throwing the covers off and sleeping in the barn.

It's an awkward few minutes before he can break the silence. "We got it all worked out. We'll head to Chicago in the morning, and we'll find you somewhere safe while I deal with Nero. I will fix this, I promise," he whispers.

Next to him Bones sighs and shifts so he's facing him. Jim clenches his fists and stares into the darkness, looking for shadows on the ceiling that he can fight off, but there's nothing there bar the suffocating stillness.

"Yeah, I guess you will. One way or another," Bones drawls, his voice soft and honeyed by sleepiness. It makes Jim swallow down hard against the urge to taste.

Instead, Jim concentrates on the resolute sadness in his tone, as if Bones knows that Jim will do whatever it takes, no matter the personal cost, to keep his promise. And he will. He has nothing else to live for, and nothing else to protect except his word, and Bones himself. It seems Bones doesn't need to hear the words to know.

He turns on his side, his back to Bones and tucks his head into the pillows. When he breathes deep, he's disappointed when only the scent of detergent filters through his senses. He hopes it will distract him enough to be able to sleep.

*

If Jim hadn’t been prepped about his team and the history he has with each of them, he would swear that none of them even liked him. Spock has such an air of indifference to him that Jim’s not convinced he could like anyone, and the bad thing is that Jim’s not sure whether it’s the job that makes him that way or if the guy has a stick jammed so far up his ass that it prevents him from expressing anything other than contempt. Then again, it could be Jim’s apparent history of bullshit antics that made him that way too.

Jim’s first impression of Uhura had been that she would probably one day kill him with her impressively high, and pointy, heels. It’s not an impression that’s changed over the last few hours, but she seemed happy to greet him when Pike led him through unfamiliar halls to the office the team had taken over. He gets the impression that she’s going to call him on his shit, and given her specialism in languages, probably using words he’ll never manage to work out the meaning of. She’s beautiful, and if her file is anything to go by, very deadly. Jim wishes he could recall some of their joint missions; he’s sure they would have been memorable, in other circumstances.

Sulu is an oasis of zen-like calm. Chekov is his complete opposite with his energy and enthusiasm. They’re easy to overlook, either as naïve or clueless. Jim knows they are neither; even if he hadn’t read it in their files, there’s wariness in their eyes borne of experience that you can’t fake. Scotty on the other hand, seems to carry an air of innocence still, an almost childlike enthusiasm for the tech that he creates or pushes beyond their limits. Jim knows Scotty rarely hits the front line. He’s their eyes and ears, and he can do a much better job from afar where he’s not being obscured by smoke and mirrors, or the hail of gunfire.

What each of them have in common though is a healthy respect for Pike. Even among a team Pike is laid back. His voice garners attention and his suggestions merit careful consideration rather than straight up dismissal. Jim senses that this is a team that works like a machine, each different part working to their limits, so that the whole gets things done. Jim knows he was the front man. He’s the one that took everything the team gave him so he could throw the punches and pull the trigger with maximum effect. But putting himself back into the team now, he's worried he's going to be a square peg in a round hole of that well-oiled machine. They're strangers to him now.

Maybe that’s why he wants to be let loose to handle the problem on his own, even if technically Nero is a CIA problem and not just his. He hopes instinct will let him work with them, to know when to go left to balance Spock’s right, without having to ask. He risks a glance at Bones in the seat next to him, one of many glances he's let himself have throughout the meeting. He's met with the same view; one of Bones staring at the coffee mug on the table in front of him, adding nothing and looking at no-one, least of all Jim.

"You can't just walk down the street until Nero shows his face. We need control of where and when," Uhura says, breaking into his thoughts.

"And at the moment we have no idea where they are in order to gain some control," Sulu responds. "We need an in; a tail to follow, a contact."

Jim's eyes stray to the duffel at his feet, and suddenly remembers the cell phone he'd picked up off one of Nero's men. He reaches for it, his hand digging in the depths of the bag where the phone had been buried and forgotten about.

"Will this help?" he asks, sliding the phone across the table towards Scott. "Got it off one of Nero's men back in San Francisco."

Scott grins as he picks up the phone, turning it over in his hands. "Give me a moment and I'll have her singing like a canary." 

Jim watches him glance towards Pike, likely for permission, waiting until the elder man tilts his head towards the door. "We could all do with a break anyway. We'll reconvene once Scotty has something for us."

Bones is out of his chair first, and Jim watches him go, worried about the silence and the lack of acknowledgment. When he turns back to the room he catches Pike watching him. "You probably want to talk to him."

Jim's not sure what he needs to say, unsure how Bones is feeling and what he can do to fix this. He needs a clear head to deal with Nero before he tries to work out how he and Bones can fit together. It doesn't stop him from following him from the room though, not until the large open plan office reveals no sign of Bones. He pauses until he figures the only place he could go is likely the bathroom.

When he pushes open the door Bones is stood at the sink, wringing his hands under the running water. He lifts his head as Jim closes the door and leans back against it, their eyes meeting in the reflection of the mirror for a brief moment before Bones returns his attention to his hands.

Jim waits until the faucet shuts off and Bones is tugging paper towels out of the dispenser as if it's personally offended him. Jim sighs and crosses his arms. "You okay?"

"Just peachy," Bones mutters as he tosses the used paper in the bin and leans back against the sink.

"You know we're safe here right?" he asks, needing to get a beat on what Bones is thinking.

"For now."

The terse words don't really help. Jim sighs and leans his head back against the door. "It'll be over soon. We've got the help and manpower, hopefully Scotty will come up with the means, and then you can go home."

"Why don't you just let them deal with it? They have the benefit of not being a mess of bruises and bullet holes, not to mention having all their faculties in place."

"I can't do that," Jim says softly. He can't. He doesn't really know what kind of person he is, but no matter how many bruises and bullet holes he has, he's going to finish what he started, not leave his mess for someone else to clean up. He's certainly not going to sit behind a desk waiting for someone to tell him it's over, not when he needs closure in order to be able to start afresh.

"Figures," Bones mutters. Jim watches as he unfolds his arms and comes to stand at the door, his hand on the handle. "So I'll just sit in the corner and wait until I get the all clear then, while you go out with half a brain and a target on your back hoping that the people you've just met can keep you in one piece."

"I have to do this. Instincts tell me to trust them, and that's all I have. You're safe now."

"Yeah, and you're not," Bones mutters. His shoulders straighten as he finally looks Jim in the eye. "Do what you want Jim, seems like that's what you do anyway."

He tugs on the door handle, and Jim steps away, leaving him just enough room to exit. The door swings shut with barely a sound and Jim leans back against it. He's not sure what Bones' problem is now, not when they're closer to getting this mess resolved so he can go home. He needs to talk to Bones properly, to not let this tension between them hang over them - over him - as he heads out, but he doesn't think Bones will let him.

He doesn't need the distraction, doesn't need to worry about this exchange possibly being the last one they have. He has to tell himself it won't be. Because he is going to take down Nero, and then he's going to have that talk with Bones that he should have had at the farm before Pike interrupted. These are things he can still fix.


	6. Chapter 6

*

Jim scratches the shell of his ear, mindful of the earpiece through which he's currently listening to Scotty chattering away. He's assuming the Scotsman is talking to himself more than he is the team given the lack of interaction from anyone as they go about finalizing their positions and roles. He leaves them to it as he twists the cup of half-drunk coffee in his hands.

The bright sun shining through the gap in the high-rises makes sitting in the window of the Starbucks almost unbearably warm, despite the near-Arctic temperature of the air con, but Jim doesn't intend on staying here long and he'll take the position that gives him the best sightlines while he waits. He pulls the stolen cell phone from his jeans pocket and places it on the counter next to him. He's not sure what he expects from Nero, whether the man will have burned the phone numbers that Scotty retrieved from the phone, or if he's waiting, just as Jim is, for him to call.

Nero doesn't make mistakes. He's patient and precise with his operations. Jim wishes he could remember their last encounter, because he gets the impression that Nero wouldn't just send his men after him unless he had good reason to. Nero showing his face, or at least those of his men, doesn't speak of patience and Jim wonders if perhaps Nero's after him for more than just revenge. He wonders if he's supposed to have something that Nero needs. He sighs deeply and tugs his hair sharply, but it triggers nothing.

The coffee in his hand is lukewarm by the time Spock indicates that everything is ready. Before he can doubt himself Jim reaches for the cell phone and switches it on, tapping in the number Scotty said was most likely that of Nero, or at least someone who had his ear. The plan is to wait a few minutes, see if Nero has the phone monitored and see how he reacts before Jim makes any move to contact him. As the network connects however the screen flashes with a message.

  
_You have something I want returned_

There's little Jim can do about that. He can't return what he can't remember taking. Unless Nero wants the cell phone or the guns he took back in San Francisco then whatever else there might be is lost to the abyss with Jim's memories.

His fingers hover over the keys as he tries to think what he can reply with. Before he can come up with anything the dulled phone screen brightens again as another message comes in.

  
_Be ready to meet in 1 hour_

Jim frowns, because he's pretty sure he has no reason that Nero can come up with to agree to that demand, other than wanting the opportunity to take him out.

 _Why would I want to do that_ he types, hitting send before anyone on the team can tell him not to, knowing full well that Scotty is tracking all the traffic through the two phones.

He hears Scotty mutter a "got 'im" through the earpiece. With a smile Jim moves from the seat and walks out of the Starbucks, and starts to head back to the car parked the next block over.

"Er, guys, we have a wee problem." Scotty's voice comes over the earpiece, and even without years of familiarity to draw on Jim can hear the panic.

"What?" Jim asks, not caring if he looks like he's talking to himself as he picks up the pace to his car.

"That cell is at the office."

Jim almost stumbles, because if Nero's at the office and he knows that Jim isn't there then he wants something, and the only thing that will get Jim to meet Nero on the Columbian's terms is Bones.

"Call Pike, now," he yells as he starts running for the car. As soon as he reaches it he's gunning the engine and cutting up traffic in a bid to get back across town.

The stolen phone on the seat next to him starts ringing, Nero's number flashing on the screen. Jim glances at it, reaching out as he cuts through a red light and weaves between the bus and sedan that are crossing his path. He hits the pickup button and waits.

"You'll want to make that meet because I have something of yours you will no doubt want returned."

The voice is heavily accented but mild, confident, and Jim commits it to memory so he'll know who he needs to kill first. In the background he can hear fire alarms. In his other ear he can hear one of his team mutter ' _Fuck, they hit the office_ '. Jim doesn't say a word.

"One hour. I'll let you know where."

He throws the phone into the passenger footwell when the call disconnects and presses his foot down harder on the accelerator as his blood runs cold. He underestimated Nero. Underestimated him maybe because he had nothing but what was on paper and came from the mouths of people he doesn't really know. Underestimated him because he has no knowledge of just what it is he's taken that Nero wants back so badly as to hit a CIA base. Maybe Bones was right. Maybe he should have left it to people with their brains intact.

He sees the first curls of smoke when he gets within a couple of blocks of the non-descript downtown office that is the CIA Chicago office. As he turns the corner he finds the street full of police squad cars, fire trucks and paramedics. He stops the car at the police barrier, shaking off the arms that try to stop him. The main entrance is peppered with bullet holes, and paramedics seeing to a couple of security guards. Jim skids across the tiles to the security desk, bringing up the camera footage.

The three gunmen that enter the front door are blatant, nothing subtle about them at all and they don't even pause to say anything before they open fire. The two security guards are cut down before they can get to their guns, but one at least manages to hit the alarm. Nero's men settle in to cover all the doors and access to the stairs and elevators. He follows the reactions of the staff on the other cameras, but it isn't the staff he's looking for.

The cameras show the roller shutter doors to the basement parking lot raise. Show more of Nero's men enter the building from there, taking out anyone they come across. On another camera he watches Bones and Pike head to the garage with an agent. Jim's holding his breath, because he's pretty sure he doesn't want to watch this, but he needs to know what happened.

He can tell the moment Pike notices something is wrong, but even then it's too late to stop the agent behind him turn his gun on Pike and open fire. Jim hopes the inside man wasn’t something his forgotten memories could have told him. Was he the reason Jim turned up a battered mess in San Francisco?

He flinches at the spray from the headshot that takes out their mole, grateful that the cameras filter out the technicolor, but his eyes don't leave the grainy black and white image of Bones as he kneels down by Pike. Even as Nero's men surround him he's checking Pike out, and Jim knows that at least then Pike was still alive. He watches Bones shake off one hand that tries to pull him away. It's Bones - that ingrained need to heal, even when Jim wants him to take the easy route. He's read what Nero has done to warrant CIA attention, and while it's clear he wants Bones as his collateral, Jim doesn't suspect that he really cares what state the package is in.

His stomach clenches as he watches the butt of a gun strike Bones across the head, hands dragging him upright. Jim's holding his breath until he sees that Bones has his feet under him, and he follows the view of the cameras until Bones is bundled into the back of a car, and out of sight.

He watches the stillness of the single camera feed until agents filter into the camera's view and move to Pike and the other downed agent. Watches until there's enough activity around Pike that Jim believes he may have survived. The acknowledgment reminds him that he left the cell phone in the car. Nero had already started counting down the minutes of the single hour before Jim got here.

He runs back to the car, weaving around the emergency personnel and shaking off Uhura's attempt to stop him. He flings open the passenger car door and grabs the phone, scrambling to unlock it when he sees the blinking message light.

  
_Ontario and Rush. You get more directions when you get there_

Jim heads round to the driver's seat, putting the cell on the dash where he'll see the next message come in. He's about to set off when the opening of the passenger door startles him. Spock climbs into the car, fastening his belt before he turns to look at Jim. He's not asking where or what, he's silent as he looks at Jim as if expecting him to carry on as he was. Jim wants to kick him out. He wants to not be the reason anyone else gets hurt, but he's wasting time now, and he'll waste more trying to get Spock out of the car.

"We're following directions. He'll know you're with me," Jim warns, even if he doubts it will do any good.

"He attacked us," Spock says, as if that's enough of a reason. Maybe it is, Jim doesn't know him, or anyone else, well enough to know how close-knit they are or how they'd react to one of their own being downed.

In the end Jim just nods, hands Spock the cell phone and concentrates on getting to the first check point as quickly as he can.

*

Jim slams the brakes on the car outside T-J Maxx, not caring about the blare of horns behind him. He ignores the single fingered gesture from the driver of the car that pulls round them, and scans the area for a familiar face, one from Pike's files. The first stop is too close to the center of town, too filled with shoppers and tourists alike and no-one seems familiar.

His fingers flex around the steering wheel while he wills the stolen cell to light up with the next instructions. He knows Nero can't be too far away. Getting anywhere in the city in under an hour when it's likely they're being taken on a roundabout route to stall them means that they can't actually be going far; just being given enough of a distraction to allow Nero to set up whatever he has in mind.

"Orleans and Division," Spock announces after the cell pings in the silent car.

Jim jams his foot on the accelerator before Spock even manages to completely voice the second street, barely avoiding the traffic cutting across the intersection. He pauses at the next lights when he realizes he has no idea where he's going.

Beside him Spock is tapping away on his own cell phone, and soon the tones of the Google directions interrupt the silence in the car. Jim splits his attention between the road and the monotone instructions, and tries to ignore the rapid beat of his heart. _Should have, could have_ , are thoughts he dwells on, and it seems inauspicious that he barely has enough history in his head, yet already has regrets that he knows will haunt him. It's perhaps a blessing, given his apparent back-story, that just a few days is all he has to torture himself with.

He barely brings the car to a halt at the corner of Orleans when the next instruction comes through for Wisconsin and Clark. Jim wants to scream when the irritating calm of Google's instructions add just six minutes to the ticking clock. He glances as his watch as he half-listens to the guided turns. Thirty minutes into Nero's hour, and Jim suspects there'll be more dead ends.

He doesn't even get a chance to pull to a stop opposite Lincoln Park before Spock is reeling off the next instructions. The only comfort he gets when he pulls the car to a halt outside the Damen blue line transit station is that the detour has eaten enough time into the ominous hour that Jim's closer to that deadline, and as such is closer to Nero and Bones.

Other than the O'Hare-bound train, there are no further instructions, and Jim's attention remains on the screen of the cell phone, willing it to give up the inner workings of Nero's mind. When Spock tenses in the seat opposite, Jim tears his eyes away, scanning the occupants of the train car until he meets the eyes of a familiar face of one of Nero's associates - Jorge Perez - from Pike's files.

There's a relatively fresh wound across the man's cheek where darker scabs split by pinker healing skin weave a sinuous path across tanned skin, and Jim wonders if that was a memento he left from the last time he was in Nero's vicinity. From the way the man trails a thumb across the wound, and the almost satisfied threat in his eyes, Jim figures he has his answer. He manages to conjure up a smirk, figuring cocky bravado is what they expect, even if it's far from what Jim is feeling right now.

He doesn't let his attention shift from the man. And it's the tilt of Perez's head when Montrose is announced that has Jim standing. There's ten minutes to Nero's deadline, and with Perez now their shadow, Jim knows this is the penultimate stop. He's just not sure what that final stop will be.

*

The roller shutters screech as they lower behind the Mercedes that had been waiting for them at Montrose. The journey from the station hadn't taken long, just two or three turns and no attempts to disguise the route. Either Nero has no intentions on using the warehouse again, or has no concerns that Jim and Spock will live to reveal the location. Whatever is going to happen will likely be quick. There's been no attempt to separate them from the cell phone and no search for wires or trackers. Scotty should know where they are, there should be a team minutes behind them, Nero must know that.

Jim doesn't know what he's supposed to have taken. Nero could be completely overconfident and unconcerned about being caught, or he's desperate. Jim hopes it's the latter - hitting a CIA office purely to gain leverage would speak of desperation. If it's overconfidence, approaching madness, then there's nothing Jim can appeal to. Jim's only leverage is whatever Nero wants, and he wishes he knew what the hell it was.

The warehouse is nearly pitch black. Daylight struggles to break through the dirt-smeared glass-block windows that are sunken into the blackened brick walls. The headlamps of the car illuminate little but swirling dust and cobwebs. There are packing crates piled high in one corner, but none of them look like they are recent additions. In the far end of the elongate building lie piles of metal, mostly rusted, Jim thinks there might even be the shell of a truck under haphazardly strewn corrugated sheeting. Nothing in here gives the impression that Nero, or anyone else for that matter, uses the space. Jim suspects that if he dies here, he’ll be nothing but bones the next time someone bothers to look inside.

There's a scrape of aged metal and the buzz of electricity. Some of the overhead strip lights flicker, and only a third of the fittings stay lit, although they give off little more than dim orangey light. It doesn't improve the view, but least some of the shadows are chased back and Jim feels slightly better knowing that there isn't an army concealed in their depths. 

Jim's assessment of the warehouse is interrupted as a door he hadn't noticed in the gloom opens with a groan from disuse. The man that steps through it is tall, and every ounce of strength is evident in the way he holds himself and moves. As he gets closer, the dim lighting confirms what Jim suspected. The teardrop tattoos on the man's face - a souvenir of the only time Nero spent behind bars - identify him.

What a study of Nero gives though, is that he isn't desperate, and while clearly confident, Nero has the look of someone who has nothing he cares about. There's nothing to appeal to. Jim doubts that whatever he took from Nero even concerns him. Ultimately, Jim has no idea what reasons Nero could have for coming after him, for hitting the office, for bringing Jim out here when he has no care about being tracked down. Revenge? Sport? Boredom? The way Nero looks right now is giving Jim nothing to work with.

"Where is he?"

Nero's lips twitch, but the movement doesn't spread into any other expression but the apathy he walked in with. Despite that, Jim suspects he's probably revealed more than he should have. But if it gets Bones within Jim's sight and closer to getting the hell out of here in one piece, then Jim will take it.

A tilt of Nero's head has one of his men going back to the door Nero came through, and Jim feels his heart rate pick up as Bones is brought out. Jim's grateful that it's on his own feet. While he can't see Bones in any great detail to assess his condition, the way he moves is now familiar to Jim - a powerful stride that carries his confidence and purpose. There's nothing in the way he walks across the warehouse that suggests any injury, but his posture is tense, and Jim hopes it's just in response to the situation. As they approach the brighter lit area, Jim can see the dried trail of blood down the left side of his face that originated from the split skin at Bones' hairline. Jim's thankful for the sparse drops on his shirt, because it means that it isn't a bad injury.

The man Jim recognizes from the files as Ayel brings Bones to stand by Nero, and Jim takes a moment to fully assess Bones' condition, thankful that the cut seems to be the only ill-effect of the last hour or so. He reluctantly meets his eyes, certain he'll see an I-told-you-so looking back at him. The quiet confidence he sees instead causes a wave of guilt to run through him. 

Jim can't willingly access the part of the brain that holds the training for this kind of situation. He has no advantage whatsoever over Nero, beyond the hope that his team is converging on their location, and surely Nero must expect that. Jim has no weapons, he's surrounded by at least five people who have them, and Ayel's gun is held against the base of Bones' spine. Despite having Spock at his side, he's feeling like Bones' confidence is sorely misplaced. He hopes he manages to paste into his expression something vaguely resembling the confidence of someone who has a plan.

"What now?" he asks.

Even though Jim's attention is on Nero, it's Ayel that speaks up, and with no prompting from Nero. Jim's unable to spot any subtle shift in Nero's posture that would give Ayel the floor. There's no indication in the CIA files that anyone other than Nero is in charge, so Jim's left to wonder if Nero cares anything at all about Jim's previous infiltration and his apparent theft. He's either so pissed that he has to leave someone else to ask the questions in case he shoots first and asks later; or he doesn't give a fuck and he's just on a ride along because he's got nothing better to do than watch his men rip apart CIA agents.

Jim's gut clenches painfully, and he's inclined to agree with the sentiment it portrays. It doesn't matter what's in those files; Jim's pretty sure Ayel and the rest of Nero's team are in it for the money, and that means they want back what Jim has. Nero? Jim's pretty sure blood is what Nero's looking for.

"Where is the ledger?"

And isn't that just the - probably - multi-million dollar question? It's a question Jim has no hopes of answering; not in the time it will take Ayel and his pals to lose patience. He's still not decided whether he wants all his memories back, but he'll take that one back at least if he thought for one minute it would help. Not that he thinks it would. He's not sure there's much that will right now, and he doesn't have many positive outcomes running through his head.

All that's left is instinct. He's not wholly sure what Spock is capable of in situations such as this, so he can only really factor in himself. He musters up an aura of confidence he's just not feeling, and hopes that he can keep the attention on him long enough for Uhura, Chekov and Sulu to summon up some magic from somewhere.

"Not here," he answers. "It's not even in the State." Which he's sure is the truth since he's positive he hasn't brought it with him, unless the ledger is some sort of drive that's small enough to be hidden sub-dermal. And that's something he's not willing to think about right now.

There's a twitch in Ayel's jaw that doesn't bode well for his patience lasting all that long. When Jim glances at Nero, there's no change to his expression, and he gets the feeling Nero will carry on for as long as it takes. Given Jim's lack of recollection, that'll be somewhat akin to Sisyphus and his proverbial boulder. What he’s starting to realize, however, is that Nero is far more interested in Spock than in him, and Jim is really sick of not having all the puzzle pieces.

Ayel moves until he's stood in front of Jim. Another of Nero's men takes his previous spot at Bones' back. Movement from behind him pulls Jim's attention to Garcia and the gun he has now pointing at Spock. With a few looks, Ayel's placed his pawns.

"So, where. Is. It?"

The growled words are probably the last civil question Jim will get asked before the violence starts. The tone, as well as Ayel's proximity, tell him that. He'll take whatever punishment he gets for as long as he can stand up. He owes Bones and Spock that.

He shrugs, and pastes a smile on his face. "You know what? I can't seem to recall where I left it."

The fist to his face isn't that unexpected. There's a lot of power behind the arm, and Jim's body rocks with the force of it, despite trying to compensate. His teeth tear into the inside of his cheek, and he feels the blood seep into his mouth, warm and metallic tasting. He spits out a mouthful of blood to the dirty warehouse floor and pulls himself back up straight.

"Nope, can't say that jogged anything." He runs his tongue across his bottom lip, and watches as Ayel's expression darkens. It doesn't bode well for him keeping his facial features aligned and somewhat aesthetically pleasing, but it does keep the attention on him. The dark spots dancing across his vision are distracting, but he knows that will be the least of his worries by the time help arrives. If it's in time.

He doesn't risk a glance at either Bones or Spock to know what their reactions are to the next fist that glances off the bottom rib on his right side and into his kidney. His instincts are screaming at him to defend, to hit, but he ignores them, fighting instead to keep focused, looking for the cue that mean bullets won't be fired the second he strikes back.

The next punch to his gut drops him to his knees, and he has to blink rapidly to chase away the dark edges creeping into and narrowing his sight. He forces air into his lungs. One. Two. In. Out. 

A sharp pain accompanies the splitting of skin across his eyebrow with the follow up blow and he has to stick out a hand to stop himself hitting the deck. Grit digs into his palm, tiny pinpricks of discomfort that he really shouldn't be able to pick out amid the damage already inflicted. It gives him something to focus on though, sharp points that force his awareness outward again. He lifts his head and scans the warehouse around him, looking to see if anyone has moved.

He doesn't let his attention linger on any one spot, or person, no matter how much he wants to reassure Bones he's okay, that he'll get him out of here. Especially when that brief look shows the concern and fear so plainly on Bones' face. Bones knows as well as he does that there's no answer coming for Ayel to stop the violence.

His ribs twinge as he forces himself back to his feet. It's nothing new for him; aching ribs have been one of the constants for the short length of time his memory can produce. He squares his shoulders, and resists the urge to wipe the flow of blood running down the side of his face from his eyebrow.

"I can do this all day, but I don't think you can," Jim says. "So where do we go from here?"

Ayel doesn't move at first. On the surface he appears calm and controlled, but Jim doesn't think for one second that Ayel is going to say _okay, thanks for coming_ and let them walk out of here. It's why he keeps his attention firmly on Ayel. Even with that scrutiny, Jim almost misses the moment Ayel decides he's had enough. There's no change to his expression, no permission sought from Nero, just the attack.

In a way Jim's surprised someone doesn't just shoot him, but Ayel seems to be taking it personally, and Jim wonders what went on in order to garner the amount of hatred that would cause someone to choose to beat the crap out of another human being rather than pull a trigger and walk away. The punch to his face feels like it snaps something, a sharp pain and the ringing loud in his ears. The air in his lungs gasps outward with the force of the punch to his gut and before he can suck a breath back in again, a hand grabs at the collar of his shirt.

His feet shuffle to try to gain balance as he's dragged backwards. His back slams against the warm metal of the hood of the Mercedes, and Jim gets a brief look at the rage in Ayel's eyes before hands close around his throat.

Jim could question what he seems to know about strangulation, but he'd rather not dwell on why those facts come so easily to a CIA agent, or how often Jim may have had to resort to those tactics himself. Someone of Ayel's strength and rage works against the law of averages, and Jim knows he has a distorted perception of time passing right now. He can't find a breath, and is losing the fight against the starbursts of light flickering in the encroaching darkness across his vision.

He starts to struggle, a reflexive last ditch attempt to fight back, to get some air into his lungs. It doesn't do him any good. Ayel's grip is solid, and the lack of oxygen and reduced blood flow to his brain means that Jim can't co-ordinate his movements enough to gain any leverage.

He's pretty sure he's going to die. The burning in his chest, and the pressure around his neck, are evidence of that. Until the pressure suddenly goes, and he can suck in a noisy gasp of air. It takes a few seconds for his oxygen starved brain to recognize that Ayel isn't trying to kill him anymore. It takes even longer for him to realize that somewhere beyond the ringing in his ears, there are the sounds of gunshots and fighting.

Still gasping for breath, he rolls off the hood of the car, his feet tangling with Ayel's motionless body. He snaps his gaze to Bones. Sees him on one knee, gun in his hands, pointing in Ayel's direction. The man that had held the gun at Bones is prone behind him, and Jim just gapes, because he had accepted his mortality, and hadn't for one moment expected savior to come from that corner. He should have though, because saving people seems to be Bones' default setting.

A flash of movement grabs Jim's attention, but he's too late to shout a warning or react, as Nero steps behind Bones. There's a glint as the Mercedes’ headlamps catch the steel of the knife before Nero plunges it into Bones' back.

The light catches the blade again, but this time the pristine surface is marred by blood. Jim's attention darts back to Bones, and Jim's positive that the anguish in his expression is evident for all to see. There's shock in Bones' eyes, but he seems strangely calm and accepting. Such an antithesis to the roar of denial that bursts through Jim's chest as Bones collapses to the ground.

"NO!"

And beyond the disbelief, Jim's only thought is that he's not fucking worth it. Not that.

Despite the fuzziness of his head, and the unsteadiness of his legs, he launches himself across the warehouse, vision narrowed to Nero. Nero doesn't move. He barely braces himself, the now bloody knife is held at his side, and he doesn't even raise it as Jim barrels into him.

They go down in a tangle of limbs and Jim scrambles up to his knees as quick as he can so that he has the leverage. He ignores the elbow that catches his chin and rattles his teeth, and puts his weight behind a punch that rocks Nero's head to one side. Jim takes the advantage it gives him to straddle Nero, laying blows he knows will do the most damage.

Jim barely feels anything amid the blind rage, but there's a sharp tug at his side, that has Jim reaching for Nero’s hand that still holds the knife. He hears the sharp snap of bone as he forces the hand and wrist until the knife clatters noisily to the floor. Jim shoves it away, a metallic scrape as it spins out of reach of both men. 

It doesn't even occur to Jim to go for the knife. All that's running through his head is the primal need to hurt, to turn the faucet and let the pain dictate his actions. So he rains blow after blow, and doesn't even register that there's no resistance, and no retaliation.

"Jim?"

Spock's voice is loud, although Jim's certain he's barely raised his voice. It's only when he pauses, bloody fist raised to strike again, that Jim realizes how quiet the warehouse now is. He stares down at Nero's bloody face, and closed eyes, and hates that he could have kept on going until there wasn't a face to identify. And maybe, ultimately, he does fully understand what causes a man to try to beat another to death.

"The doctor is asking for you."

It's that, more than anything else, which causes Jim to finally let go of Nero's shirt, letting the limp body drop to the warehouse floor. Because Bones is alive.

Without another glance, Jim rises and wipes as much of the blood from his hands that he can onto his now filthy jeans. He's back onto wobbly feet, sucking in air he forgot he needed through an abused windpipe, as he staggers over to where Bones lays. He drops to his knees at his side, being oh so careful as he lifts Bones' upper body to rest against Jim's leg, wrapping him as gently as possible in his arms. Jim's a mess, but it's better than the dirty floor.

"How are you doing?" Jim whispers against Bones' dark hair.

Bones' eyes are open when Jim finally meets his gaze. His expression is pinched by pain, and the tanned skin is losing pallor as quickly as the blood that's starting to wet the fabric of Jim's jeans. "Could be better," he murmurs. "You?"

Jim snorts. "Can't say I've ever been 100%, so realistically it's all relative." His voice is rough and scratchy, and he swallows painfully to ease the pressure. "But I'm alive, thanks to you."

The gunshot echoes so loudly, the sound pinging off the metal walls until Jim's not sure whether it's his hearing from the hits he took that's still ringing or the ongoing echo. He doesn't look over at Spock and Nero. He's pretty sure what the shot means, and while he feels a brief pang of regret that he wasn't the one to pull the trigger, he's glad in a way that he didn't. While he's pretty sure there's a long list of dead bodies he's left rotting all over the world, he's yet to kill in front of Bones.

Spock, Jim's fairly certain, has his own history with Nero that isn't in Pike's summary dossiers, and Jim hopes he'll take some closure from finishing the job. Jim's testimony would fall short in a court of law on the basis of his lack of recall. From what Pike seemed to suggest, Nero had some influential people in his pocket. Jim wonders if that is what is in the ledger Ayel wanted so badly. If so, there will be a few people sleeping easier, maybe one of those bought the mole. Jim just doesn't know if he's better not knowing where the ledger is, or whether he's going to become a target once word spreads. It's something he's going to have to work out, and fast, before he can let himself walk away from the agency.

A shifting of Bones' leg breaks he away from his thoughts, and Jim coughs to try to clear his throat. "So you weren't lying when you said you could shoot, huh?" Jim tries to keep his tone light, but between the bruising he knows will soon be showing as vibrant handprints around his throat, and the fear tightening his chest it comes out hoarse and pained. And God, he wishes all the pain was physically his.

Bones shrugs a shoulder, and even that tiniest of movements has his body tensing in Jim's arms. "Wouldn't be able to class myself as a Georgian otherwise." His words are stuttered, and the wheeze of his breath makes Jim's chest clench even more.

Jim huffs, trying to force air into his own lungs and desperately trying to ignore the warm wetness soaking into his jeans. "Can't have that can we?" He tightens his grip on Bones' shirt.

"I need you to do something for me," Bones whispers, his voice fading with each pulse of his heartbeat.

Jim swallows thickly, trying to force saliva past abused muscle, and not audibly choke. "Of course." It's not even a question of what. Jim will find a way to do it, even if it's something otherwise beyond his control.

"Make sure Geoff gets his 'vette back. I'll be covering his shifts until the Four Horsemen appear if it's not back in one piece and pristine. Not sure I'm up for a reverse road trip right now."

Jim snorts, curling in on himself until he can rest his forehead against Bones'. He's trying to ignore the coolness of Bones' skin, and the strong scent of warm blood. Bones isn't talking about death, and Jim feels something loosen in his chest. He hopes it's the doctor in him recognizing the potential extent of the injury and odds on a mortal wound, and not that he's just finding words that might make Jim feel easier. 

"I promise," Jim whispers. "It'll be cleaner than when it rolled out of the showroom, and delivered in bubblewrap to his front door. He won't know it's been gone. I'll get Pike to throw in a tank of gas."

"How is Pike?"

Bones' words are so soft that Jim struggles to make them out. It's only by virtue of their closeness that he hears them at all. He's not sure if that's a product of Bones' waning strength or that he doesn't want to ask in the first place. On the journey from the farmhouse to Chicago, while they’d had their last bit of solitude in the Corvette, he'd told Bones about what Pike had said about their long history. He's done a lot of thinking about it since, and deep down he knows there's trust and respect for Pike. He's concluded there's no way he'd work with and for a man to repay a debt, or just on the sole basis that he's some kind of father figure. Or at least he hopes not. So, the only logical conclusion is that Pike is a good man, and chances are Pike meant a lot to him once.

He feels guilty that he can't give Bones an answer, not because he owes it to Bones, but because he should have concern for Pike's condition so high up his list of priorities - or he suspects the old him would. The old Jim didn't have Bones though.

"He was alive when the medics got to him. I don't know any more than that."

"Jim?"

Jim raises his head at Uhura's voice, blinking at the realization he hasn't noticed her arrival, although all the gun shots from before now make more sense. There are EMTs hovering behind her, and when he looks around there's the rest of the team, minus Scotty trying to look busy by gathering weapons and checking on Nero's downed men. He turns back to the paramedics and nods.

"Hey Bones? Help's here. Try to prove them wrong and show that doctors can make good patients, huh?"

"Idiot." Bones' insult breaks off in a pained hiss as Jim moves to allow the paramedics access. As gentle as the paramedic is, Jim feels the tug on his shirt as Bones' hand grabs onto it. As soon as Bones is laid back Jim unfurls the fingers from the fabric of his shirt and takes the hand in his own. He's not sure whose grip is tighter, but Jim's determined not to let go.

The paramedics work quickly and efficiently, and don't even try to separate Jim from Bones, which is probably somewhat telling of how bad Jim looks. It's no doubt easier for them to have both patients in one bus. He drops heavily into one of the seats in the back of the ambulance, feeling every bruise, cut and possible break as the adrenaline wears off. God, he's tired. He wants to crawl into bed and stay there for a week.

He blinks away the fog when he acknowledges a change in lighting. The paramedic in front of him is giving him an encouraging smile, but he notices her eyes flicker from one part of him to another, her clinical gaze no doubt assessing each injury.

He startles when the doors slam shut, hissing when the pain in his side lets itself known as he tenses. It barely registered when Nero's knife caught him, but the path it took is definitely letting him know it's there and he wonders just how much damage it did. 

"How about we see about patching you up a little?" she asks. She doesn't make a move though, perhaps seeing how jittery he is right now.

His gaze shifts to the stretcher, where Bones lays, oxygen mask dominating his pale, still, face. He clears his throat to try to protest, her attention should be elsewhere.

"He's okay," she says gently. "He's stable. We'll be at the hospital in a few minutes and I'm pretty sure he'd want me to check you over. You did say he was a doctor, right?"

Jim grimaces, and it's not all from the pain. It seems she knows which card to show in order to get her own way. He manages a nod and leans further back in the seat, but he keeps his eyes on Bones. Her touches are sure, but clinical. The antiseptic wipes sting as they clean the cut on his eyebrow. Fingers prod at his cheek and occipital bone and the pain is sharp enough to tear his eyes away from Bones.

"Sorry. I think there might be a fracture there." She's apologetic, but really it's just one more pinpoint of pain he's trying to ignore.

He tips his head back against the side of the truck, feeling the vibrations and trying to ignore the wail of the sirens, a pulse of sound that he could really do without. He can't leave his head there for long. Too many potholes and dips in the asphalt cause his head to bang painfully, but he can't seem to find the energy to lift the dead weight of his skull.

The problem is solved when the tee he's wearing gets pulled away from his side, forcing him to curl in on himself at the sudden sharp pain. He hisses as a bandage is pressed to his side, a mix of pressure-pain that's split between the sting of the knife wound and the dull ache of bruising. He wants to suck in a deep breath, but between his abused ribs and his throat all he manages are sharp sucking inhales through his clenched teeth that do little to chase away the pain.

He's lost in a dizzying haze caused by not enough oxygen and a tired, battered body that's trying to wave a white flag and shut down. The opening of the rear doors startles him, and he realizes he's missing a big chunk of time. He stays in his seat out of the way as hospital personnel appear and wheel Bones away, and he's trying to work out how best to follow when a hand on his shoulder pushes him back down.

"You got him here, how about you let us take care of you now?"

The paramedic he's ridden in with has gentle brown eyes full of compassion, and he wonders if in another life he might have flirted with her. He doesn't have the energy, nor the inclination to try, and closes his eyes as he nods. He's grateful that he's mostly out of it when they finally get his battered, broken ass off the ambulance.


	7. Chapter 7

*

When he finally blinks through the darkness and ensuing blur, Jim has no idea how much time has passed. He stays still while he catalogs the damage; what feels numb, where pressure suggests swelling or bindings, and what pinches and protests when he breathes. He's not much of a finely tuned orchestra right now, more the off-pitch attempts of multiple instruments to try to find a balanced chord. And his head feels like that's where they've found to practice; the rhythm section just behind his right eye.

He aches. Bone-deep weariness. There's no sharp pain to focus on to break through the malaise, just dullness and drug-borne fuzziness that makes him feel like he's sinking into the mattress like a lead weight. 

Fragments of images and memories coalesce in his mind and are almost coherent; the beat of drums going off in his head picks up in speed as he pieces together what happened. The needle from the IV tugs sharply in the back of his hand as he fumbles for the call button, and he's barely pressed it when the door opens, Uhura following closely behind the nurse that comes into the room.

"McCoy?" It's Uhura he directs his question to, hoping that she'd anticipate where his concern would lie.

"He's okay."

She holds his gaze while he tries to find any untruth in the two words, and he can only hope that her tone and smile are genuine, rather than the product of training.

"He's awake enough to ask about you, and grumble something about idiots ignoring their own injuries and nearly bleeding out."

Jim snorts and settles back against the pillows in relief. He doubts she knows Bones well enough yet to have found such a realistic response without it having come from the man himself in some form. He lets the nurse ask him questions, answers as truthfully as he can, and ignores those he doesn't have an answer to. It seems several blows to the head and excessive blood loss haven't restarted his already fried brain cells.

The drums fade away as the nurse turns dials on the heart monitor, and he's grateful for the silence, even more so now he realizes that it wasn't just his head that was building up a crescendo of noise. 

"Pike's alive too," Uhura adds softly, when the nurse leaves the room.

He follows her graceful movements as she sits in the chair at his bedside, giving himself a moment to think. He wonders how telling it is for her that he hasn't asked about someone that from the evidence at the farm should be one of the most important people in his life. Maybe he's giving too much away in his expressions and mannerisms, or failing to play the persona she's known until now. Jim's looking at a stranger who he should know when he looks at Uhura. Maybe she's now realizing that she's looking at one too. The man he is, or should be, lost long ago in events and experiences that shaped him. He's not really sure he wants that person back.

He clears his throat. "How is he?"

Uhura sighs, and crosses elegant legs. "The bullet damaged his spinal cord. He can't feel much at the moment, but the specialists are hopeful that once the swelling goes down he’ll regain some movement."

He nods, unsure what he can say. Pike's fieldwork will likely be over, regardless. Jim is no use in the field when he can't recognize anyone he's made an enemy of. He wonders briefly if Uhura is just lamenting a changing of the status quo, but dismisses it almost as soon as the thought appears. He's learnt that his instincts are still good, even if his past is otherwise inaccessible. He never felt like the team was anything other than an odd-job family; it's just a family he's doesn't feel a part of anymore; much like his blood family.

"Does he have anyone?"

Uhura smiles sadly, and he wonders if it's for him or for Pike. "No. Like most of us he has a job and a team."

He senses there's more to it and he wonders if he pushed she would tell him. He assumes Pike sees him as a son. The conversations they had in a dusty farmhouse give some evidence to that. He doesn't want Uhura to voice what he suspects she almost said - that he was Pike’s family. He doesn't want that to be a spoken truth. He doesn't want someone to tell him what his obligations should be, because he might then have to live up to them. He picks at a ball of cotton on the sheet. "Everyone else okay? I never did notice when you guys showed up."

Uhura sighs softly, almost low enough that he would have missed it if he hadn't been keenly aware of everything around him. "Everyone is fine. We were looking to force an entry when the first gunshot went off, so with the distraction we didn't need to be so quiet about it."

He nods. Although the timing was good, it could have been a few minutes earlier. But then there's no guarantee anyone would have walked out of there any better off than they did. "I appreciate the back-up."

"If you'd hung around before heading out on your own it might have worked out differently."

"I had Spock."

Uhura shakes her head slightly, but drops whatever argument she might have wished to make on that. "Revenge doesn't fix what went wrong, but I think you and I both know that some actions need to be taken to make the world turn more safely."

It's not something he _knows_ anymore, just like everything else. He supposes that's how agents deal with pulling triggers or wielding bright steel and staining cold concrete with blood, but that's not really why he's done anything since he woke up in San Francisco. Maybe she's speaking for Spock, and whatever history he may have had with Nero that caused him to pull that trigger, but for Jim, he wasn't avenging anything. He has no history of any wrongs - he was only trying to protect, and in that respect he failed.

"It wasn't for revenge." He doesn't know if Uhura believes the whispered confession or not, but he does.

*

Three days of trying to escape his room to find Bones makes the hospital staff finally relent and figure it's easier to have them both in the same room. It means staff are only walking around one set of security that they keep posting outside their respective rooms, and surely that's better than two? Or that was one argument he had voiced and if it gets him what he wants then he's not above using whatever excuse he thinks may work.

“So how come I’m the one being forced into a chair to swap rooms and you get to kick your feet up?”

Jim’s words as the nurse pushes him into the room are jovial enough, but the second he grabs sight of Bones he’s using his sharp senses to catalog as much as he can before the other man has the chance to mask anything from him. The head of the bed is raised, but he’s relieved to see the equipment surrounded it is limited, with no heart monitors or oxygen.

Bones has lost some of his deep tan to pallor, and there’s bruising surrounding the cut on his head that’s bisected by the stark white of butterfly sutures, but despite this and the slight tightness in his eyes, Jim suspects he probably looks the worse of the two of them. Especially given the way Bones’ gaze pinches further as he looks him up and down.

“Probably because you caused the most trouble.” Bones’ voice is a bit rough, but strong enough to dispel a lot of Jim’s worry and he finds himself grinning.

He shrugs a shoulder on the least broken side of his body; his own “probably” not in the least bit apologetic. 

He waits to say any more until he’s gone through the relative indignity of being resituated in bed, with a gown that refuses to stay closed over his ass as he shuffles into a position that hurts the least. He’s quietly grateful for the warm swell of painkillers from his IV to counteract the pain star-bursting out from the stitches in his side, and the ache in his ribs. He’s hoping someday soon he’ll finally be able to remember what it’s like to live a day without pain.

“So, how are you feeling?” Jim asks once they’re left alone.

“Probably a damn sight better than you right now. You look like a Jackson Pollock painting that’s gone a few rounds in the dishwasher.”

He huffs. “Seriously though?”

He can hear Bones sigh. “I’m fine. The knife nicked one of my lungs, not fully punctured. It just made a bit of a mess coming back out, but stitches will pull everything back together.”

Jim presses his head back against the pillow, and tries not to think how a nick could so easily have become something so much worse, millimeters to the right and it would have hit the lung; to the left and it could have been the spine. He thinks about Pike, and guilt tightens his gut with the realization that he’s more scared of what could have been, than he is for the equivalent injury that is affecting his supposed family. 

He wants a new start. He wants a life with Bones. Surely he can have that, Bones willing, when he doesn’t have any knowledge of, or even connection to, what he’s giving up?

He’s so deep in what ifs, what can and can’t be, that he’s lost concept of time, and it’s only Bones’ shadow passing over his face as he sits himself gingerly in the chair by him that startles him back to awareness. He’s almost ashamed of the wetness of his eyes and the sniff he takes to find some composure, but Bones has already seen him at lows other people wouldn’t ever experience.

"You shouldn't have taken that risk," he whispers hoarsely.

"Yeah well, it was worth it to me,” Bones huffs. “You were taking the abuse for something you were never going to remember, and there wasn't a damn thing anyone else could have done to find that information in order to stop it. You weren't going to do anything, not with us at risk. And while you might have been stalling in the hope that help would arrive, once you were dead and unable to answer there would be no reason at all to keep me and Spock alive."

"So you did it for yourself?" He finds a smirk to soften the words, but he knows there's no way in Hell Bones would do anything so selfish when every bone in his body is that of a healer.

"You know damn well I wasn't leaving there without you."

Jim looks away, so that the hope he feels in his chest won't be broadcast. He doesn't know where he stands with the agency yet, and he doesn't want to start something right here. Not under hospital lights, and not when neither of them are dealing well with the stress of the couple of weeks. "Yeah well," he clears his throat. "I didn't intend on leaving without you either."

Bones snorts, and Jim finds a smile that he's pretty sure doesn't look genuine. He's been failing to sleep with the nightmares of walking out of that warehouse and leaving Bones dead on the floor. It's so stupid, but all he can think about is what it would feel like to lose his anchor to the world, and in that moment he just can’t, damn any altruism.

"Listen," Jim starts, kicking his lips as he tries to find words he needs to say even if they'll be as far removed from what he wants to say as can be. "I have no idea any more how the CIA works, but I'm pretty sure they're not just going to shake my hand and let me walk away just yet. I'm certain I've pissed off some powerful and dangerous people, and I need to know who those people are so I can protect myself, and you, from them."

"Jim..."

"No, let me finish." He waits until Bones nods. "I don't know if I'm going to get back what I've lost, or even if I want to, but I know what I want now." He drops his gaze to his hands where they’re clenched in the bedding, watching as they shake slightly with nerves that feel alien. " _Who_ I want," he adds softly. "But I can't let you get hurt again, not because of me. I need to make sure I can keep you safe."

"Jim..."

He's not ready to be interrupted, not before he finally manages to say what he should have said back in Iowa. "I really like you," he blurts out, cringing at the almost adolescent tone and words. He shakes his head at his lack of smoothness and the burn of embarrassment that must be evident on his cheeks. "Will you wait for me?"

Bones is silent, long enough for Jim to have to force himself not to just stand up and walk out of the room. But when he does speak, his tone is low. "What am I waiting for?”

“Truthfully? I don't know. But I hope it's me, the real me, not the one I keep finding snippets of evidence of. I'm not sure I want that me back, and I'm pretty sure I'd warn you off him if he came to your door." Jim tries a grin, but can tell from the expression on Bones' face that the attempt at humor fell flat. He sighs.

"Someone who wants a second chance at life. And maybe if I had those thirty years of experiences and memories available I would know you could do better and I wouldn't be asking. Maybe I'd be fucking stupid and walk away from the second chance that finally gives me some happiness in what looks to be an otherwise miserable life. I guess maybe I am walking away just now, while I work some shit out and learn enough to keep us safe.”

He digs his fingernails into his palms while he tries to pull in his thoughts, stuck between saying too much and not being able to say enough. Bones stays silent next to him, and he risks looking up from the sheets covering his lap to find he has Bones’ full attention. The scrutiny makes his breath hitch, makes him burn with the need to protect Bones from everything, even Jim himself. He wills himself to not look away.

“I hope making that choice doesn't mean that I'm just as fucking stupid for letting you go, but the timing sucks right now and... I just really want there to be an 'us' more than I want my head fixing and my old life back. But it’s because of that I need to make sure I can walk away from that life without the worst of it tracking me back down."

He forces himself to keep quiet, knowing that it's likely that any further words that come out of his mouth will be awkward, and dig deep holes he may not be able to climb out of. 

"We don't even know if we’ll work," Bones whispers, seemingly shocked at Jim’s candid words.

Jim doesn't either. "I can't tell you how I am in a relationship. I don't know whether I'm overprotective and take the lead. I don't know if I run away from commitment, or cling so hard I scare people off."

"Jim..."

"Christ Bones, I don't even know how I like to be touched, what gets me off, whether I prefer being the big spoon or the little spoon."

Bones breathes out a short laugh, and Jim's lips quirk at the ridiculousness of it all. 

"I don't know if you are my normal type, and I can't tell you if I've ever been with a man before. But I can't ignore how you make me feel, because for this I don't need anyone to explain it to me, because I feel it and it’s pretty much the only thing I know is real." 

He shrugs.

"Despite everything that’s happened, you're all I can think of.”

Bones leans back gingerly in the chair, and Jim has no idea what will come out of his mouth. He’s biting his own tongue just to stop himself from digging that hole, or just outright begging. Maybe Bones wants to go back to the life he had before Jim stepped out in front of his car, one that was organized, controlled, and not full of Kirk-inflicted chaos.

"What is my life?" Bones mutters under his breath.

"Can I find out?" Jim asks, hoping the genuine question comes across in his hushed tone.

Bones stares at him for a long time, and Jim has no idea what answer he'll get. Eventually he takes a deep breath, letting it back out again in one long, noisy exhale. "What the hell," he mutters. "Maybe we can work it out together."

He grins, feeling the pressure on his shoulders lift with the relief. Maybe it won't matter what he finds in case files and in the nooks and crannies of the places he once stayed in, not if he has Bones waiting for him at the end of it all.

"I like the sound of that."


	8. Chapter 8

*

The screensaver on the monitor next to him fades to black as it trips into standby. Jim acknowledges this without any guilt towards not doing the work he's been assigned. It doesn't hold his interest, and definitely doesn't silence his thoughts.

Right now he's making an attempt to answer Aurelan's letter, but the bright white paper in front of him mocks him with its unmarred surface, so he starts to scribble in one corner, the black ink a comfortable stain on the perfection. He has no memory to explain why he doesn't speak to Sam, and he's not altogether sure he wants to know the reasons, but if he doesn't have the memories then he can't carry any air of prejudice or hurt. From the flight voucher back in Iowa, then he was at least thinking of bridging this gap before, so it must be the right thing to do.

Jim woke up and hated his own first impression; he hopes that the person he wants to be is enough for his brother to forgive whatever ills the old him might have brought. He can do nothing but forgive in return when he can tie no emotion to any transgression. The words though, well they're as out of reach as his memories.

"You're not happy."

He startles away from the angry amorphous mass of ink that he's scouring into the blank page of the notebook and looks up as Pike settles gingerly into the chair next to him. Pike's walking better now, but it'll be a long time, if ever, before he's back out in the field.

Jim shrugs. "I guess I'm used to action; sitting at a desk is a change of pace."

While he was still in hospital, they spent days looking for a way to get his memories back, medical professionals and CIA alike, but with their continued lack of success they've all but admitted that they've accepted the condition is permanent. They tasked him to build up his knowledge again before letting him back out in the field, and while he's read as much as he thinks he needs to in order to get back out there, he doesn’t want that anymore, and he’s been avoiding the physicals and training sessions with offhand excuses.

"That's true," Pike says. "But not the main reason," he adds after a pause.

He scratches more random lines into the paper to avoid looking at the only person that knows... no, _knew _him better than he _knew_ himself. He's not that person anymore.__

__"You've been keeping an eye on him. McCoy," Pike clarifies, when Jim turns to look at him. Not that Pike needed to clarify anything. Him. McCoy. Bones. There's only one person Jim has the need to keep track of. "Have you spoken to him?"_ _

__He shakes his head. He’s warred with himself between the need to pick up a phone and speak to Bones, and the need to make sure he’s safe first. The latter has won out so far, but he can’t fight the former much longer._ _

__Pike sighs next to him and Jim's fingers tighten around the pen._ _

__"Jim, listen. I know you. Even when you're at your lowest you still find some brightness, some energy, even if it's only a front to hide behind to push attention elsewhere. This isn't an easy life for anyone with a conscience. Right now, you don't have any memory of that life, and for purely selfish reasons, I'm fucking glad._ _

__"I know you can't remember the man you were, so you'll have to take me at my word when I say you're not that man anymore. Some of it is because of what you've forgotten, and because of what has gone on. But I've seen you deal with much worse and come out laughing at the other side. Mostly, you've changed because of someone you met, and if that person makes you happy, if that change is something you want, then you need to grab the hell out of that and not let go. Take this as a gift and start afresh."_ _

__"It's not a change though, is it? Not when you can't remember anything else," he replies, barely keeping his frustration in check. "I just... what if I hold out my hand and he leaves it empty?" he murmurs. He's not sure he can handle the rejection, finding that the one person in his life he's connected with doesn't want him._ _

__Pike's mouth stretches into a smirk. "You were always able to work out when someone was interested in you. I can't see that bang to your head getting rid of that ability. Mind you, you've never really fallen for any of them before, maybe you've been too busy trying to work out how you felt you've been blinded to what's obvious." Pike leans back in his seat and folds his arms in a move that speaks of exasperation. One that Jim feels is probably all too familiar. "No-win scenarios," Pike says, and Jim grits his teeth when he hears the amusement in Pike's tone. "You never believed in them before, don't start now."_ _

__He sighs and throws the pen onto his desk. He's sick of people talking to him as if they know him, studying him like a lab rat while they wait to see if he'll react with familiarity to whatever tale they're telling. This isn't his home anymore. These people are still strangers to him, and even his team still looks at him as though he's a ghost. There are too many people tiptoeing around him, others giving him 'space', and some looking at him as if he's the reason they've lost someone they were close to. He's not sure the Jim Kirk he is right now could rebuild those relationships even if he wanted to._ _

__"I figure you've caught up. Learnt what you need to in order to keep yourself safe. Keep your man safe. We're not going to hold you here, not when we know it's not right for you at this time. Maybe you'll come back," Pike shrugs, "but do it when you want to, not out of obligation. We might need you here Jim, and you'll always have a place, but for once do something for yourself."_ _

__He turns sharply to stare at Pike when he processes what Pike is saying. “I can go?” He had almost reached the point where he believed that it wouldn’t even happen, that they’d never let him leave the fold with no memories to call upon and Nero’s ledger still out there somewhere._ _

__Pike nods. “Indefinite leave. Just try to ring in every now again so we know you’re okay. You’re a magnet for trouble, and no matter what, we’ve got your back. Remember that.”_ _

__He breathes in deeply, holding the air in his lungs until they burn. As he breathes out he nods to Pike, finding a smile to mirror the one on the older man's face - probably both as fake as the other. Not that he'd recognize it. He stands from his chair and grabs the leather jacket that's hanging from the back of it, pausing once he's slipped it on his shoulders. He pulls his ID from his belt and places it on the corner of his desk. He hopes he manages the depth and sincerity he needs with his next words. "Thank you."_ _

__Pike shakes the hand he offers, and slaps Jim's arm. "Go get him."_ _

__He finds the first real smile in days as he heads for the door, not once looking back._ _

____

*

He’d driven back to Iowa, thrown his limited possessions into a case, and caught the first flight to San Francisco he could get. Packed up in the trunk of the rental car on the street behind him is pretty much everything he owns, and even then it’s mostly functional; clothes, shoes, the cash and letter from the barn. There's one gun - an insurance policy only - and he may go back for the bike one day, but right now he doesn't want anything that came from his life before. Behind the closed door in front of him is everything he needs. He can build from here.

He forces himself to move, raising a hand to press the buzzer. He knows Bones is at home, he's been hanging around close enough to the townhouse to see him arrive. The sound of movement behind the door brings his head up. Bones opens the door a touch before peering out, and Jim watches as he stills, his eyebrows rising. Jim offers a tentative smile.

"Hey," he murmurs.

Bones' voice is gruff when he finally responds. "Hey."

Bones steps back, and Jim's shoulders sag in relief as he steps in from the street. He hears the door shut softly behind him while he's staring at the hallway, remembering the last time he was here and the gunmen. Despite that, the townhouse still feels like his safe haven.

Bones walks past him towards the kitchen without saying a word, and a second after watching him disappear from sight he follows. Bones is pouring water into the coffee maker, and Jim leans against the kitchen doorway watching him. He looks as good as, if not better than, Jim remembers. The dark gray Henley reveals muscles in his shoulders and arms that he thinks are more defined than before, and he wonders if Bones took to the gym. But that leads to thoughts of whether that was from a desire to get stronger, to defend himself, or merely a tool of distraction. Whatever the cause, there’s a tension in those shoulders right now that Jim suspects he’s the cause of.

Bones settles the jug underneath the percolator, but not without the glass rattling as Bones’ shaking hand tries to guide it into place. With the coffee starting to drip through, Bones finally turns, leaning back against the counter.

Jim takes a step into the room, and slowly walks towards him. "They've finally let me out," he says, his smile lacks any humor. "I can see now why I skipped before, debriefings are hell."

Bones folds his arms and doesn’t say a word, but he’s looking at Jim as though he’s cataloguing every change – it’s the first time he’s seen him when his face hasn’t been marred with the various colors of bruises.

"Is this a pit stop on route to somewhere else?"

His head shoots up from where he’s been non-too-subtly staring at Bones' arms. Surely Bones believed him back in Chicago?

“No, not a pit stop.” He swallows dryly and spares a thought of longing to the coffee still dripping into the jug behind Bones. “I was hoping it would be a final destination.”

The coffee machine bleeps once in the ensuing silence, and Bones startles.

"I've missed you," he says softly, his eyes locked on Bones' as he closes the gap between them. "I got myself back on my feet, and read mission reports over and over until I could recite every word and describe every person in them without hesitation. I learnt as much as I could and I only hope it's enough, because I handed over my badge and I’m not going back."

He tilts his head and makes sure he has Bones' full attention. "You deserve so much better than I can ever give you, but one thing I've learned about myself is that I can be selfish. And no matter what else I learn and who I meet, none of them are you, none of them see me like you do.

“I don't like who I was," he blurts out, "who I _am_ , but I liked who I could be when I was with you."

He wants to close the distance between them, but he can't just yet, because what if Bones is regretting a decision made while jacked up on painkillers and still riding a high from surviving a “we almost died” scenario? If he’s changed his mind then Jim's going nowhere but back out through the door and onto God-only-knows-where. 

"I don't remember my name, Bones," he finishes, hoping that Bones will remember his comment from that first morning when he uttered an ultimatum in this very room to stop Jim from walking out of the door. 

Bones is still staring at him, his gaze not having wavered during his speech, but as Jim watches in the ensuing silence, Bones' eyes drift shut as he breathes out heavily. He doesn't know how to read him, maybe he's too close to be able to look objectively at the signs. He's always been too close.

"Idiot." Bones' tone is fond, and it causes Jim's heart to skip a beat. 

He sucks in a breath as Bones' arms slip around him. He's ashamed of the choked-off sob that escapes as he melts into the embrace and clings so tightly to the other man that he thinks he's in danger of breaking one of Bones' ribs. In contrast, he rests one hand gently over where he knows the scar from Nero's knife is etched into the tanned skin of Bones' back, and mutters his apologies into his skin. The arms around him tighten in response, and Bones tucks his face into Jim's neck. 

"God, I missed you too," he whispers. "Stay?"

His relieved laugh is almost too manic, but he can’t seem to care. "I'm not leaving." It's one promise he swears to himself he won't ever break, not when his future, and what will become the only past he'll remember, are all wrapped in this man. "Even if one day I remember my name."

Bones snorts but his grip doesn't lessen.

"Just promise me one thing," Jim says softly, and he knows that what he feels is leaking from him to the point where Bones has to _know_ , but Jim needs to say the words. "I love you, and I always will. So if I ever forget again, forget you - Hell, even if I remember everything from before - please don't let me go."

Bones' arms tighten around him briefly before relaxing. Jim's reluctant to let him go, but Bones doesn't move far, just enough so that he can lean down press a light kiss to Jim's lips. His hands raise to gently hold Jim's face. "I promise," he whispers. "I don't care where you've been, or who you've been. I'll fight even you and your screwed up head if I have to. Welcome home."

'Welcome home', Jim hopes, is Bones' way of saying he loves him too; it definitely feels like it. He grins wide and bright, and presses forward to crush his lips to Bones'.

While he has his instincts, he doesn't really know what he likes, and just lets himself get caught up in Bones' reactions; the soft exhales, the drag of Bones' tongue against his. It's a heady feeling, like he's learning something for the first time, despite the way his body seems to know how it should react. Arousal writhes through him, and he shivers.

He lets his hands wander across Bones' shoulders, down his back. He pulls Bones tighter to him, to allow his hand to drift to the swell of the denim-clad ass. It strikes him then, that while his body might be experienced, and his mind can conjure up the mechanics of how to have sex, he has absolutely no memory of how it feels. The thought that he can try anything and everything and it be new and fresh, and that it will always be with Bones... He pulls away with a gasp.

"I just had a thought," he says breathlessly.

Bones hums as his mouth teases at Jim's neck, not seemingly inclined to pull away far enough to really listen; not that Jim minds.

"Technically," he draws the word out, "my brain thinks I'm a virgin."

Bones splutters, and his hand tightens where it grips Jim's hip. He pulls back far enough to give Jim a wide-eyed look.

Jim shrugs, "I mean I'm guessing I'm not - well, not if my personnel file is anything to go off - but I figure since I can't remember any of it realistically my first time is going to be with you. So..." He trails off because Bones has developed a slightly panicked look.

When Bones starts to step back, Jim grabs hold of his shirt and pulls him straight back in again. "No, no, no. Seriously, I have a porn catalog in my head right now, and I have a lot of ideas, so don't give me that look. I'm just saying that everything I want to do with you I'm going to have to learn whether I like it or not, but you can be damn sure I'm going to try it all at least once."

Bones swallows hard, but relaxes back into Jim's embrace, one hand tangles in Jim's hair and he pulls lightly eyes checking Jim's face for his reaction. Jim's mouth drops open as his gut spasms, and he watches Bones' pupils spread wider in response to the picture he must paint.

"So," Bones whispers. "Where do you want to start?"

The question makes Jim pause. There are so many options, and he wants all of it clogging up his memories already, pushing all the bad stuff to the dust-covered crevices; but, he thinks, he can hopefully savor these memories and let them build and enrich slowly. There's no need to rush and consume everything now, because he has tomorrow, and the next day, and the one after to look forward to.

He feels settled, all of a sudden. He's comfortable with who he is now, with where he is, and with who he's with. There are no memories lurking, no expectations, and no ghosts. He sighs deeply in satisfaction, wraps his arms around Bones and just breathes. He feels hands softly caress his skull and back, and the simple, comfortable, ease of it makes him file the porn catalog away for another time.

"Maybe we just start with you and me, your bed, no clothes and see where we get to," Jim says softly.

Bones pulls back and holds his hand out for Jim to take. "If you accept that it's _our_ bed from now on, then I'm alright with that."

Jim takes Bones' hand and lets himself be led from the kitchen, up the winding staircase. His mind throws out a reminder that the third step wobbles, and the fifth from the top squeaks, but Jim pushes those instincts back into the recesses of his mind where he hopes one day they'll permanently stay.

The bedroom is as neat and homely as the last time he was here, and any remaining hesitancy falls away. He steps into Bones' space as soon as the door shuts, and his first soft kiss to Bones' lips turns dirty as soon as he realizes that they both want this as much as the other.

Jim moans as Bones' fingers thread back through his hair; a scratch of blunt fingernails against his scalp draws a gasp, and Jim files away his reaction to test later. He hopes Bones has done so too, because that's something he wants to explore. Right now though, he wants to drag noises out of Bones, ones he can't control because of how Jim makes him feel.

He steps back, just one step, just enough to pull his tee off. He doesn't make a show of it. There's time later for teasing and seduction, because all Jim wants right now is the feel of his skin against Bones'. His shirt ends up across the room, he doesn't see where it lands, too busy tangling his own fingers in the hem of the gray Henley he wants gone, waiting only long enough for Bones to nod before that too is flung across the room.

Throughout their impromptu road trip, Jim's had the opportunity to see Bones without a shirt, but never really _looked_. Here, his hands can follow his appreciative gaze, down across firm pectorals, and abs that now show some of the work Bones must have put in the gym. He mutters "stay" before he circles round to Bones' back.

His hands massage over strong, wide shoulders, before they trail more softly down tanned skin pausing at the pink scar that cuts across the muscle. Jim traces the edges of the scar, joining the dots between the puncture holes from the sutures. He bends low enough to press his lips to the center; he's close enough to feel Bones' hitched breath as much as hear it. 

It's a reminder of the significance of inches, and what must be fate, or the luck of the Gods. So close, he thinks, so close to not having this at all. His hands grip Bones' hips as he rests his forehead against the warm skin.

Warm, he reminds himself, alive and here, and willingly under Jim's hands.

He presses another kiss to the back of Bones' neck as his hands follow the waistband of the denim, fingers teasing the skin just underneath. He feels Bones' chest swell with a deep breath as his fingers reach the top button.

"Can I?" he whispers.

"As if I could say no," Bones chuckles.

"Well, you could," Jim says as he pops the first button. "I'm kinda hoping you don't want to," he adds as he pauses at the second button.

"Yes, please."

Jim can hear the smile in Bones’ sarcasm, but he wants to see it, so he pulls his hands from the buttons, chuckling as Bones' hips move slightly as if to chase his fingers. Bones' smile is soft, but the expression in his eyes is dangerous - a mix of challenge and lust. Jim pulls him in for a kiss, deep and possessive, and slips the remaining buttons free. The back of his hand brushes against Bones' hardness, but he resists letting himself have anything more than that just yet, relishing instead Bones' hiss of surprise against his lips.

Jim works his tongue into Bones' mouth as he pushes the denim from his hips. It's barely gathered around Bones feet before Jim feels the tug of his own belt, the clink of metal. Bones' fingers are warm as they tease the button open; the zip is loud in the relative quiet of the house, and before he can take a deep breath, his jeans lie at his feet.

He shouldn't have held any hope that they could get out of the pool of denim while still kissing, but it's almost a relief to descend into a fit a giggles as Bones tries to shuffle his feet free, and Jim's hopping around on one leg trying to get rid of his socks. 

They both sober pretty quick as Bones slowly peels off his boxers. Jim's mouth goes dry. He knows he himself is good looking. He's spent enough time studying himself in the mirror trying to become familiar and confident with his skin, but while he carries some muscle mass, especially in his arms, Bones has shoulders that Jim would happily spend his life studying. Although, he realizes, he can now. He settles for a touch, as he lets his eyes roam over the full expanse of exposed skin.

Bones is all strength and confidence. From the fire in his eyes to the solid stance of his legs. Some other time, Jim is going to take it as a challenge to push and pull and find out who's going to come out on top, but right now he wants someone to take care of him. He feels selfish. He wants to feel the hands of someone who loves him; someone who cares enough to make him feel good, not because they feel obliged, or as a means to get themselves off.

He slips his own boxers off without fanfare, and holds his hand out. Bones' thumb caresses his palm as he takes his hand, and Jim backs up to the bed slowly. He keeps hold as he awkwardly shuffles backwards up the cover until his head meets the pillows, only letting go when Bones pulls his hand back to hold his weight as he hovers over him.

"Still sure?" Bones murmurs.

"Yeah." Jim raises his hands, spreads his palms over Bones' chest and drags them across his skin until he wraps fingers around hips and pulls Bones down, finally skin on skin. "Love me?" he breathes against Bones' plush mouth.

"That's the easy part." Bones lips tickle Jim's as he speaks, and Jim closes his eyes as he removes the small distance between them and lets himself sink into the feel of their kiss and the softness of the bed beneath him.

He registers the slight quiver in Bones' elbows pressed against his arms, where he's holding himself from crushing Jim with his weight. It's distracting enough to pull him away from the delicious feeling of their cocks rubbing together with each roll of Bones' hips and each time Jim pushes up from the bed. He rolls them to their sides; moaning as Bones slots his thigh between Jim's, his hand hoisting his leg higher to make more room.

Jim loves the stretch of the muscles in his thigh, but even more so the feel of Bones' hand as it strokes his skin, the rise of goosebumps in the wake. The slow caress of the flesh of his ass has him pushing closer, dragging his cock against Bones' thigh, wordlessly asking for more.

Bones seems all too willing to oblige, and he sucks in a sharp breath as fingers wrap round his cock; lightly at first until Jim's pretty sure he's vocal enough for Bones to work out he's completely onboard with this. The grip swaps and changes, lightens and tightens, with twists and strokes, and it's infuriating that there isn't one rhythm that Jim can sink into. It's just a hand - the rough edge of Bones' fingernail adding sensation - it shouldn't feel this good. It shouldn't feel new. It shouldn't... 

"Fuck!" He's pretty sure Bones just pinched him.

"Have I got your attention?"

Jim blinks open eyes he's apparently screwed shut. He brings his head forward from where he must have had it thrown backwards from the dull ache settled at the base of his skull. "You stopped," he grumbles.

He assumes Bones find his pouting attractive given the kiss that follows, and fuck... his tongue is as talented as his hands. Jim presses closer, moaning at the assault on his mouth and the way their cocks slip past one another. He rocks until the angle is perfect, and Bones groans against his lips.

He opens his mouth to protest when Bones pulls back, but his breath stutters out as he takes them both in hand. Jim rests his forehead against Bones and watches. He's storing up memories of the way Bones' hand moves, the way his hips rolls, where he presses or rubs to cause a hitch in Jim's breathing; a soft exhale; the ripple of tension through his abs. He watches until he can't. Until his eyes clench shut against the building waves cascading through his body and the need to let go.

His head drops back. His fingers dig into the meat of Bones' shoulder. His leg clenches, heel digging into the back of Bones thigh trying to pull him closer. Panting breaths stutter and catch; stopping altogether as his body lets go.

Fuck. He should have remembered this feeling. The spread of warmth; the wave of pleasure of both body and brain. Whenever and wherever his first time was, it can't have been anything like this. He feels taken apart and clumsily stuck back together again.

Lips gently tease his neck, and it's not enough, so Jim raises his hands to hold Bones' head steady as he takes what he needs, not even caring about the lack of finesse as he plunges his tongue into Bones' willing mouth. He wants that feeling back.

He moans a protest as Bones gentles his frantic kiss, a slightly wet hand cups his face, and Jim suddenly needs to know that Bones felt this too. "Did you...?"

Bones chuckles as he presses a soft kiss to the corner of Jim's mouth. "Find me a saint who says he could resist your face as you come, and I'll call him a liar."

"So..."

"I ain't no saint."

Jim snorts, but he's curious enough to swirl a finger through the mess on Bones' stomach. He's not sure what he thought it would taste like, but it's not off-putting enough to make him want to scratch options off his to-do list. He mutters a "what" around the finger still in his mouth when he realizes Bones is staring at him, one eyebrow raised.

"I think you're going to be the death of me, kid."

Jim doesn't think he sounds that unhappy by the prospect.

He lets Bones go long just long enough to allow him to clean them up so they don't stick together, before settling back into his embrace. He feels light, for the first time. No worries, no what-ifs. He's content to drift in the feeling of Bones' hand tracing simple patterns on his back, and just not think.

It takes him a while to realize that Bones' hands pause as they trace scar tissue, before moving on again. He doesn't know their stories beyond the one in his side, and he knows Bones won't ask, but he wonders what Bones pictures. He'll know what's come from a bullet, a knife, or a surgeon's blade by virtue of his profession... maybe that's too much knowledge for him, not that he'll ever get confirmation of his thoughts. He only blinks open his eyes when he feels feather-light fingertips trace the bullet scar in his shoulder, the one that ultimately led him to Bones, and to this spot right here.

"I might not know how I came about that one," he whispers, "but I know what it got me, so I don't mind it."

Bones looks up from his scrutiny and his eyes flicker as though he's searching for something. Jim doesn't know what that is, but his words are the truth, and he has nothing to hide here.

"A whole heap of trouble..." Bones says softly, but he presses a soft kiss to the scar before being far less gentle in the kiss he presses to Jim's lips. _And you_ Jim thinks _it got me you_ ; he'll take all the trouble in the world if this is the outcome each time.

He shuffles in Bones' embrace, settling his back to Bones' front and tugging the arm back round him. He feels safe. The itch that's burned his mind and kept him restless since he 'woke up' in a San Francisco alleyway, doesn't register anymore. He laces his fingers with Bones' and sighs in relief that this works, that they work, and it feels right.

"Hey Bones?"

The fingers threaded through his squeeze briefly, and there's the brief tickle of warm air on the back of his neck as Bones hums.

"Turns out I don't mind being the little spoon."

Bones snorts, tugs Jim tighter into his arms and mutters a "Good" as he presses a kiss to Jim's head.

He feels good, for the first time he can remember. He might not know what he wants to do with his life, but as long as it's with Bones he doesn't really mind. He has at least that one dream now, and he'll probably come up with more, but most importantly he has someone that makes him happy. This is his life now, but it's the one he chose rather than one he was given. And it's... better than good. It's home.

END


End file.
